


I Shall Embrace the Light

by TokuTenshi



Series: Though the Darkness Comes Upon Me [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Circle of Magi, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forbidden Love, Jealousy, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars, Maker I'm bad at tags..., Slow Burn, Templars, The Gallows, ebrisa trevelyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 161,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9145306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokuTenshi/pseuds/TokuTenshi
Summary: Ebrisa Trevelyan had only been in the Starkhaven Circle of Magi for two years before it burned down, transferred with a large group of her peers to The Gallows in Kirkwall. Raised by a devote Andrastian family, the young noble becomes a model apprentice, enduring the trials and restrictions of her new home with quiet humility.Though determined to not cause trouble, Ebrisa catches the attention of both the Knight-Commander and Knight-Captain. As the years wear on and Ebrisa grows into her own, she begins to feel there is one rule she just might be willing to break.Slight AU to 'Fire is Her Water'





	1. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a slight AU to my other series, but you don't have to read that in order for this to make sense. It sprung from a very simple premise - Ebrisa Trevelyan going to the Circle in Starkhaven instead of Ostwick at age 12. I hope that any one who has previously read (and enjoyed?) the 'Fire Is Her Water' series will like this version of Ebrisa just as much.
> 
> Planned updates twice a week. I don't have as much backlogged writing this time.

Ever since removing Jevet from office, Aveline had the pick of the duty roster and was finally able to put herself to proper use in the city guard. Lesser guardsman – like the former captain – would use the opportunity to select something easy, but the Fereldan wasn't that kind of soldier. She paused and strained her ears, barely able to make out the sounds of scuffling over the crashing water of the harbor. Aveline smirked and headed to the noise. There really was nothing quite like a night patrol at the docks.

In the narrow alley between two warehouses stood three members of the Corterie, fencing in their latest targets. "Turn out your pockets, girly," a greasy-haired man chuckled, spinning a throwing knife around his finger. "Don't you know there's a fee for roaming the streets at night?"

"I could say the same to you, Walker."

The man jumped at the booming voice behind him and turned around with his fellows to face the newcomer. Aveline had her sword and shield out, blocking the thugs from escape just as they had done to their own prey. "Guard dog," Walker sneered.

"So what is it going to be this time? You coming peacefully?" Aveline had dealt with the man before, nearly been able to bring him in more than once, but the scoundrel had always managed to slip her grasp while she fought his men. There were only three of them this time.

"What can I say, guard dog?" He stopped spinning the blade and grinned wickedly. "I like a challenge." The other men rushed Aveline, forcing her to turn her shield to block their strikes and leaving her head and neck exposed. Walker reared back his arm, aiming his knife and wondering how satisfying it would be to finally see the Fereldan dead and off his case.

"No!" His forgotten victim latched onto his arm, trying to wrestle the weapon from his grasp.

"To the Void with you, girl! Don't you know when to run?" Walker shouted as the two of them struggled.

Aveline recovered quickly from the initial attack and pushed the men back. While they were still off balance, she smashed her shield into the one on her left, stunning him to buy time. The other thug met swiftly with her sword and was already cut down by the time the first regained his senses. The trained soldier made quick work of the hired goon, finishing him off just as Walker threw his own attacker to the ground. He spat on the girl, then turned to join the fight and came face-to-face with Aveline, the point of her freshly stained blade pressing against his neck. "I gave you a choice."

"Fereldan bit-!" The sword completed its strike before Walker could complete his curse and the man dropped to the dirty ground.

She wiped off her blade with the rag tucked in her belt and shook her head. She could have stopped a lot of muggings if only she'd been able to do that sooner. Aveline put her weapons away and turned her attention to the victim. "Are you alright?"

The girl climbed to her feet, almost getting caught in the torn and dirty layers of her once fine clothing. She was that awkward stage of life, no longer a child but not yet an adult – mid teens, by Aveline's estimation – and still held the wide eyes of innocence. They were a very striking green, bright even in the dead of night and caught the moonlight in an odd way, almost swirling. Her hair was a light color – blonde, perhaps – and fell from a long ago woven bun in frizzy, curling strands. "Your shield," the girl began softly, ignoring the question. "You are a templar?"

Aveline frowned just a little. Despite the better shields available to her, she couldn't bring herself to hang up Wesley's. Not just yet. "No, miss. I'm with the city guard." She eyed the young woman more closely. "What are you doing out here so late?"

"Please, messere, we _must_ get to the Circle of Magi."

"We?"

"It's in the middle of the water," came an annoyed burr. A younger boy with dark brown hair popped up from behind a crate, glaring in the direction of the harbor. "We've been walkin' all over looking for a damn bridge."

The blonde turned to him sharply, disapproving frown in place. "Edan, language! Vemara can hear you!"

The boy looked down just as another child rose from the hiding spot, covering her mouth with both hands in shock. "Aye, sorry, Ebrisa..." he mumbled through his accent.

The young woman, Ebrisa, sighed quietly and shook away her scowl, replacing it with a gentle smile. "Come on out now," she urged. "We need to thank the nice city guard."

The boy walked up to Aveline, still sulking. "Thank you, ser."

She nodded slightly at him, his grumpy reluctance reminding her a bit of one of her companions. "Just doing my job, but I'm afraid the Gallows are sealed until sunrise."

"That's not a very friendly sounding name," Edan grumbled.

"Not much of Kirkwall is friendly."

The blonde had finally managed to coax the youngest out in the open and past the dead thugs by holding her hand and keeping her focus upward. The child was elven, her ears poking out from her chin-length raven hair, and could be no older than five or six.

"Sunrise?" The blonde glanced over the water at the fortress, becoming concerned. "But we must get there as soon as possible. We're already so late."

"Well I'm afraid you'll have to wait." Aveline darted her eyes around the dirty group, seeing no resemblance between any of them. "I can lead you to the Chantry and someone there can take you in the morning."

The young woman nodded. "If there is no other way, than we humbly accept your offer, messere." She let go of the girl's hand and knelt down. "Ready, Vemara?" The child climbed on her back, drawing an quiet groan from the blonde, and wrapped her arms around her neck. The young woman stood up slowly, holding her arms under the child to support her and took a moment to adjust the burden. The boy came up beside her and took hold of the hem of Vemara's skirt.

Aveline raised a brow at the well practiced procedure. "Been doing a lot of walking together?"

Ebrisa laughed a bit awkwardly, restraining the sound. "A little over two weeks."

They moved from the far end of the docks, Aveline leading while also continuing her patrol. After all, there was no sense in abandoning it entirely when she was still in the area.

"Ebrisa, you're sweaty," Vemara whined softly.

"I'm sorry. Can you bare it a little while longer?" The blonde craned her head to try and look at the girl on her back at least a little. "Maybe the nice sisters can find us a wash basin when we get there and we can clean up."

Edan scowled at the ground. "I don't need a bath."

She giggled at his firm denial. "Edan, you could only be dirtier if you bathed in mud. You'll wash up if I have to hold you down and do it myself."

At that, the boy's face heated and he pressed his lips together to stay silent. Aveline halted the group and moved away for a minute to investigate a pried open door, but found nothing overly suspicious. She'd come back later to look more thoroughly.

"Ebrisa," Vemara whined again. "Can we have a song?"

"Isn't that what brought the bandits the first time?" Edan tugged the girl's skirt.

"But I'm bored...."

The blonde let out a very choppy breath. "When we... when we get there."

Aveline rejoined the children and they followed her again, the guardsman needing to slow her usual pace for them to keep up. Ebrisa looked tired, the most worn of the group for certain. Had she been carrying the small girl the entire two weeks? Aveline wasn't the best with children, her forceful nature not allowing much room for the patience needed, but she thought she should still offer to help. "I can carry her, miss. You look like you could use a break from it."

Vemara ducked her head out of sight, hiding from the Fereldan. "I don't know you. Mamae said not to let strangers touch me."

"She's the one who beat the bad guys trying to hurt us, Vemara," Edan said with a roll of his eyes. "You wee nyaff."

"Don't be mean to me!" Vemara kicked at him, the jerking motion making Ebrisa wobble a little.

"Please, you two," the blonde mumbled, still trying to regain her balance. "Let's not... not do this tonight."

Vemara tightened her grip, holding herself closer to Ebrisa, and felt the fabric of their clothing squish in the warm wetness seeping over the young woman's back. She leaned away, frowning. "You're really _really_ sweaty..."

"Sorry..." Ebrisa panted. "Sorry, just..." She fell to her knees, the sudden drop dislodging Vemara from her perch and sending her to the ground with a shout of pain. Ebrisa twisted around, holding out a hand to the child. "Vemara? I'm sorry." Her vision was beginning to blur as sweat dripped into her eyes, but she could plainly make out the dark stain on the front of the girl's jumper. "Are... are you okay?"

"Ebrisa...?" Edan's voice held a fearful tone he hadn't used since they had begun traveling alone. "Don't you feel that?"

She turned to him, now needing both arms to hold herself up as everything began to wobble around her. "Feel what?" She tried to smile at him, to ease the terror overtaking his face, but collapsed the rest of the way to the dirt.

"Flames," Aveline muttered as she took a knee beside the unconscious blonde and pressed a hand to the bleeding wound in the young woman's back. It was at that point that the little elf girl began crying, pulling at her clothes to try and rip them off. Aveline whipped her head to Edan."Shut her up, unless you want another set of thugs to jump us." She didn't yell the order, but the firmness and certainty in her voice made him jump to the task.

A lone city guard with an injured, unconscious girl and two children was too tempting a target to make it all the way to the healers in the Chantry or any healer worth their salt in Lowtown. Still, the girl had lost a lot of blood and they couldn't wait around for backup. Aveline dragged her eyes towards the water, towards the entrance to Darktown. The undercity wasn't any safer than the docks at night, but there was aide in there she couldn't get elsewhere.

With a grunt, she hefted Ebrisa to her feet and draped one of the girl's arms behind her neck, grabbing hold of her hand and holding her firmly by the waist with the other. She looked at Edan still consoling the elf child and whistled to get his attention. When he looked up at her, she gestured with her head. "Come on. We're going to get your friend the help she needs. Follow me."

He grabbed Vemara's hand and practically dragged her along as she sniffled. Aveline directed them down the steps and into the tunnels, past sewer entrances and passed out drunkards. "Where are we going?" Edan pulled Vemara closer in an attempt to keep her safe.

"I have... an acquaintance down here. He's a healer, but its a secret." Aveline didn't stop or turn as she answered him, focused on getting to the clinic as quickly as possible. "He can only help if you promise to never say anything about how he helped or where he is, alright?"

"Okay," Edan mumbled, a bit put off by the secrecy.

"Swear it," Aveline ordered.

He stopped, surprised by the woman. "I... I swear."

"The little one, too. You both need to promise this. It's very important."

Edan shook Vemara's hand, getting her attention. She looked up, still tugging at her stained clothes with one hand. "I swear promise."

Aveline turned back to the children, a grateful smile on her face, making her seem soft for the first time since she encountered them. "Thank you."

They made it to the clinic without incident, Ebrisa's dragging feet leaving a dotted line in the dirt marking their path. Aveline shouldered the door open with a crash, startling the lone healer inside. "Anders! She needs your help!"

The man scrambled to ready a cot and helped Aveline lay the patient down. He touched his fingers lightly over the single stab wound, confused by the amount of blood. "How long ago was this?"

"No more than twenty minuets," Aveline answered, as though giving a report. "I believe she was injured while fighting Walker for his knife." She looked down, a bit ashamed. "The girl was trying to stop him from attacking me."

Anders hummed in concern, ripping the already torn clothing further to get a better look at the wound. "It should have begun clotting by now, but the blood is still flowing freely." He noted the dark veins around the cut and the pulsing heat on her sweat-beaded skin. "He must have used a poisoned blade. I will try my best, but without having a sample to work with, I-"

"Here, do what you can." Aveline whipped out Walker's knife from her belt, cutting off the surprised man. She raised a brow. "Honestly, Anders. I wasn't going to leave weapons just lying around the docks."

He would have chuckled, but he had a patient to attend to. Setting the blade to the side, he rose to his feet and gathered the healing energies into his hands. He heard a muffled gasp, but ignored it and wove the threads of magic into the wound, mending the muscle and blood vessels before focusing on the outer layers. After several moments, the bleeding had stopped and only a scar remained. The dark veins and fever persisted, however, and he would need to put his non-magical healing talents to use to combat the poison.

"He's a mage," the muffled voice from before whispered out and this time Anders looked at its source. Vemara had her fingers laced in front of her gawking mouth, staring at him with wide eyes as Edan held an arm out to keep her back.

The boy glared at Aveline. "You didn't say he was an _apostate_!"

The guardsman snapped her fingers in the child's face. "Did you want your friend saved or not? Help is help, no matter where it comes from." She moved past the children and headed for the exit. "I'll be back at first light," the fighter called over her shoulder as she shut the door and left, leaving Anders alone with his patient and her... entourage?

He cleared his throat and moved to the apothecary station with the throwing knife. There was still the matter of countering the poison and while the young woman wasn't in immediate danger of dying from it, the fever would take its toll the longer it remained. He found some of the poison hiding under the wrapped cording of the grip and scraped it onto a white piece of cloth. Anders examined it under the light, then studied the smell carefully, jotting down his observations and cross referencing them against known poisons – checking the ones common amongst the Corterie first.

Having finally identified the poison as – of all things – Tomwise's house special, Anders pulled out a small flask of its antidote and wondered if the elf knew his signature mixture was being used by the Corterie. He turned back to his patient and lifted her up slightly, twisting her around in his arms. The cork came off with a pop and he carefully tipped the flask back until every drop slid past her lips. With just as much care as he'd taken picking her up, Anders set the young woman back to the cot, resting on her back this time.

"There, she just needs to rest. In a few days, she should be just fine," Anders said it as much to himself as the children. "Now that your... friend is taken care of, why don't you tell me whats going on?"

Edan slowly moved to Ebrisa's side, studying the paleness of her face in the light. "She was taking us to the Circle, but we couldn't get across..."

"The Circle?" Anders frowned and looked between the children. "Are you mages, like me?"

The boy scowled at him. "No, we're Circle mages and _you're_ an apostate."

"Edan, don't be mean just cause Ebrisa can't scold you," Vemara huffed. "I'mma tell on you."

"He's a rogue mage, Vemara. That's dangerous!" Edan defended, turning to the small girl. "We shouldn't even be near him."

"He helped Ebrisa, you dummy!" The elf set her hands on her hips in challenge. "Guard-lady wouldn't take us someplace unsafe after killing those bad guys." Edan tried his fiercest glare, but failed to intimidate the girl to conceding.

Anders leaned against a support beam and folded his arms. "And how long have you been apprentices? I was only a bit older than the little one when I was taken to the Circle."

Edan reluctantly looked back at the man, still scowling. "A year. Vemara was only there two months before we had to leave for Kirkwall."

The man looked at the little girl, eyes filled with sympathy. "You poor thing. Ripping children from their mother's skirts is fundamentally wrong."

"No, it was a good thing!" Vemara insisted. "Mamae and I lived in the alienage, but we didn't have a house. When I made lightning hit the vhenadahl, Mamae was so happy and took me to the templars in the Chantry. She said the templars would take care of me and keep me safe and warm and fed and make sure I learned all the important things she couldn't teach me."

Anders shook his head. "You're just a child. You shouldn't have to grow up in that mage prison. Neither of you should." He bent down a little, expression softening. "I may know a way you can escape. Start a new life free of the Circle. You could be gone before your friend even wakes up and she'd have no way of finding you to drag you back."

"No!" Vemara ran up and threw her arms around Ebrisa's waist. "She plays with me and sings me songs and you can't make me leave her!" She pouted fiercely at the trained mage.

He sighed heavily and rose back up, preparing another cot for the children to sleep on. It broke his heart to know the little ones would miss so much of life, be robbed of so many freedoms, simply because they were too young to understand what they were getting into. If Anders was more secure in his own safety, more confident in the fledgling mage underground, then he could force the children to take shelter. They would fight him, but be grateful in the end. As it stood, however, he could do nothing but stand back and let them turn themselves in.

Anders went off to find the least dirty of his thread-bare blankets and by the time he had returned the feisty children were already asleep. Edan had his arms folded on the cot, head resting on them beside Ebrisa's legs as his body hunched awkwardly on the dirt floor. Vemara had climbed fully onto the wooden platform and draped herself unabashedly across the still recovering patient, snoring lightly on the older girl's chest. The man chuckled quietly and tucked the worn fabric around the group, realizing exactly how futile his attempt to separate them had been.

~~~~~~~~~  
The Gallows had not seemed nearly as intimidating from across the water, but as the ferry drew closer and closer to the fortress, Ebrisa felt an involuntary shiver run up her spine. She had heard Kirkwall called _The City of Chains_ and in the early morning light she could plainly make out the massive metal links running across the harbor and former prison. Aveline did her best to ease the children's apprehension of the imposing structure, explaining that the structure had once been a Tevinter prison and – like many other places in Kirkwall – signs of the long gone Imperium remained.

In the back of her mind, Ebrisa understood the Chantry's selection of the building. It was isolated, fortified, and a constant reminder of what uncontrolled mages were capable of. The bitter taste of fear in her mouth as the ferry docked only reaffirmed that the Chantry's tactics were working. They approached the steps, Ebrisa eyeing the bronze statues of cowering, collared slaves for the first time and shaking off the sense of unease. She looked down at Edan and Vemara, taking one of their hands into each of her own, and smiled warmly. “Come on then, up we go.”

It was a slow trek up the stairs, the carved stone steps not intended for someone with such tiny legs, but Vemara refused to let Ebrisa pick her up. The wound was healed, but the blonde remained pale and sweaty as the antidote did its best to combat the toxins flowing in her system. Anders had insisted she would be fine after rest, but the little elven child didn't want to push their luck.

Aveline lead them through the raised portcullis and into the stone entry courtyard. The few merchants there were barely beginning to set up shop, ignoring the small group as they stared at the Tevinter imagery and high walls. The flag stones beneath their feet were worn, but well tended to with no sign of weeds or cracks between them. The entire space seemed to say one thing: discipline.

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” Aveline called out as they approached a templar standing to the side. He had been watching them since they passed under the gate, wondering what the guardsman was doing with such disheveled looking individuals. “These children say they have business here.”

“Oh?” Cullen turned to the oldest, waiting for an explanation.

“Knight-Captain, ser,” Ebrisa dipped her head and performed an awkward curtsey, still holding the others hands. “We come from Starkhaven's Circle of Magi for relocation. Our caravan...” She hesitated a little, chewing her bottom lip. “I am ashamed to say that our fellows succumbed to blood magic, slaying our templar escorts once Kirkwall was in sight.”

Cullen straightened instantly. “Slain by maleficarum? All of them?”

The young woman would not meet his eyes. “I believe so. Once Serrah Decimus cut himself and killed the first templars, we did not stay to witness the rest of the fight.”

“I liked the templars,” Vemara mumbled as the Knight-Captain called a bearded knight to fetch the commander. “Ser Trent gave me sweets.”

Ebrisa smiled sadly at the child and squeezed her hand. “Yes, he was very nice.”

“Thank you, guardsman,” Cullen nodded at Aveline. “The templars will take it from here.” She nodded and looked her temporary charges over one last time before leaving back the way she came. They stood in silence for a little while, Cullen folding his arms and shaking his head. “I should have known something happened when the caravan failed to arrive on time. The temptation just proved too great for Starkhaven's mages, I suppose.”

“Not all of us!” Edan huffed angrily, drawing a stern look from the templar.

“Edan!” Ebrisa whispered harshly, tugging on the boy's hand as she turned to him. “Is that any way to speak to the Knight-Captain?”

Cullen raised a brow, noting how worn and sickly the young woman appeared. “It would seem you've had your hands full.”

She gave an awkward, timid smile, but kept her eyes low. “Its been a little trying. Perhaps if not so many sided with Decimus...”

A heavily armored older woman marched towards them, the bearded man in tow. “You have news of Starkhaven?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.” Cullen snapped to attention. “This mage claims the others of her caravan turned on the templars.” He paused, disgust in his voice as he continued. “Blood magic.”

“Escaped then,” Meredith said in her usual steely voice. She turned to Ebrisa, drawing her eyes over the layers of dirt. When she came to her face, the woman stiffened for only a moment. “You did well to get here on your own. Do you know where the others are?”

Ebrisa frowned, truly disappointed she could not assist further. “I am not familiar with the area, Knight-Commander.”

“Fair enough. I'll have Ser Karras take a contingent of men and follow the route the caravan should have come down. With luck, the blood mages were too intent on fleeing to cover their tracks.” Meredith turned to Cullen, grim frown in place. “I doubt there will be more turning themselves in, but send for me if any do.”

“Of course, Knight-Commander.” He saluted and watched as Meredith lead the mages away, starting at the large blood stain on the young woman's back. It would seem the journey was more trying than she let on.

 

Meredith checked the mages against the list she'd received from Starkhaven's Knight-Commander and pressed for any more details they could remember before taking their blood for new phylacteries and handing them to Orsino across the hall. The elf had a list of his own from First Enchanter Raddick that went into much more detail than Meredith's simple roster. From it he learned Vemara was barely beginning to manifest her powers, that Edan was struggling with reading and quick to become frustrated with it, and that Ebrisa had an... odd set of stipulations for her schooling.

She'd only been in the Circle a little over two years before it burned down and remained an apprentice. Raddick claimed she needed to be kept from the other students and barred from practical lessons. Studying was encouraged, but she should be dissuaded from developing her own theorems. Under no circumstance should she learn to wield a staff or hold a focus of any kind. Most of all, the Rite of Tranquility must be avoided at all costs.

Orsino frowned at the rules, wondering what sort of nonsense Starkhaven was involved with and why their First Enchanter would single out this mage for educational hindrance. He raised his eyes to the new comers before him. “Vemara Petit, I'm afraid you're the youngest here and we have no courses in place for one so small. We'll need to put you in with the older children until a mentor becomes available.”

She nodded in understanding, but pouted a little all the same. “Okaaaay,” she sighed.

The First Enchanter smiled lightly at the child, knowing that being elven would make things a bit harder for her as well. He turned to the boy, trying to fix his most authoritative look on him. “Edan Rayes, I will assign you a reading tutor. Words are the base of all spells and if you truly wish to control the power inside you, reading is required.”

Edan tried his best not to scowl as the enchanter held him in a firm gaze. “Yes, ser.”

“And Ebrisa...” he paused, frowning a little. “I'm sorry, child, but your last name doesn't seem to be here.” Surely Meredith had noticed the omission as well, but saw fit to ignore it. Orsino might have as well, if not for the odd stipulations set on her.

“Oh, well,” Ebrisa rubbed her forehead sheepishly. “First Enchanter Raddick said the Circle was a new life and I shouldn't speak of what came before. He said my family name was meaningless.”

Orsino looked down at the list of rules again and furrowed his brow. Whatever had happened in her old Circle, he was surely not going to perpetuate it. “And I'm telling you that's all nonsense. Now then, your family name?”

She straightened and set her shoulders back, changing her meek posture to a more dignified stance. “Trevelyan, First Enchanter.”

He nodded and made a note in her file. “Well then, Ebrisa Trevelyan, you certainly have a lot of catching up to do.”

 


	2. Settling In

After getting room assignments, a Ser Cade lead the new apprentices to the bathing area while an enchanter found some suitable clothes for them. Between the dirt, damage, and blood, there was no way the Starkhaven mages could wear their old robes again. The baths were a series of recessed worn stone pools, separated by embossed metal sheets that once displayed Tevinter imagery and the templar escort turned his back as Ebrisa giddily lead the children to the welcoming sight. She picked up a comb from the supply station and made quick work of Edan's and Vemara's hair, pulling clumps of dirt and bits of twigs free as she dealt with the knots. She handed them each a chunk of soap – glad to see their new home wasn't using tallow - and instructed them to start bathing as she turned her attention to the neglected mess adorning her own head. She chided the children over her shoulder for splashing as she worked out the tangles from her long, curly hair. Sense would have her cut it, but her mother had always said a lady's life was her hair and if that was all she had now, she would keep it as long as possible.

Ebrisa removed her tattered robes, getting a good look at the extent of the damage for the first time. She'd noticed the blood on Vemara's clothes, but it didn't really click how bad off she'd been until coming face-to-face with the stain on her own. She shivered at the thought and was thankful to the passing healer who aided her after blacking out. The apothecary she'd woken up to that morning explained everything as best he could, but she was too disoriented by her surroundings to really question him.

The baths in Starkhaven's Circle were much like the rest of the city – marble and lavish and unnecessarily gilded – a warm bath was a warm bath and Ebrisa sighed happily as she stepped into the water. She sat on the bottom of the stone pool for several minuets, letting the now shoulder-high water ease her tired muscles and the soreness from her feet. Though she would never tell Vemara, carrying the girl around so much had really done a number on her back.

“Ebrisa, can you do my hair?” Vemara trudged through the water, holding the soap out with both hands for fear of dropping it. “I asked Edan, but he ignored me.” She pointed to the side of the small pool where the boy sat, back to them and scrubbing at his own head.

The young woman rose to her knees and took the sud covered chunk, working it into a lather and scrubbing at the elf's scalp. The child's hair was short and in no time Ebrisa was helping her dunk down to rise it out. Her own hair proved much more time consuming and the younger mages were already out of the water and changing into their new clothes by the time she began rinsing. Vemara waited impatiently for her to finish, but Edan stood beside the templar, matching his posture and keeping his eyes away from the bath.

Squeezing out as much water as she could, Ebrisa rushed her locks into a loose braid and dried off. The robes she was given came with a corseted outer layer, which she ignored, sighing at her current inability to fill the garment enough to keep it in place. It wasn't as though she was disappointed her still developing body wasn't more shapely, she just didn't want to draw attention to the fact that it wasn't.

With the group clean and dressed, Ser Cade lead them back through the Gallows with a weary sigh. He pointed out the library and mage dining hall as well as the different classrooms as they passed, more than a little annoyed for playing tour-guide. “If you've need of the Knight-Commander or First Enchanter, they are in the Templar Hall. Mages are not permitted there unannounced or unescorted, so you must plead your case to a templar first.”

As they made their way to the apprentice quarters, Ebrisa couldn't help but notice the way passing mages grew quiet at their approach. They looked her over, narrowing their eyes curiously, and she wondered if word had spread about Starkhaven's betrayal. Ebrisa would not blame anyone if they suspected her of blood magic as well, but the Knight-Commander surely would have sent her to isolation if that were the case. Honestly, Ebrisa had run numerous scenarios through her head ever since Decimus first dragged the small blade across his skin and none of them had ended nearly as favorably as today was going.

They arrived at a long stream of steel doors with little barred windows and Ebrisa was reminded that the Gallows was a refurbished prison. Still, the idea that they would be sleeping in cells made her uneasy. The templar looked down at his notes, then searched the doors until stopping before one and knocking only once. He pulled it open without waiting for a reply, catching the occupant fastening the last clasp of his robes.

The templar shook his head and and held back a groan. “Feynriel, you've got the mantle inside-out again. How do you even secure the broach like that?”

The blonde male grumbled and undid the pin. “I'm still getting used to all this. Its a lot to adjust to, Ser Cade.”

Cade reached into the hall and motioned Edan forward. “This is your new room mate. Someone else will be by later to take him to class.” The boy walked into the room, looking around at the sparse furnishings and barred window.

Feynriel nodded in greetings to the younger boy. “I'm pretty new here myself, but feel free to ask me anything.” He received a disinterested hum as a reply.

“And if you could show this one to lessons?” Cade gestured a thumb at Ebrisa, who was busy studying the room herself.

She jumped slightly when she noticed Feynriel watching her. “Oh, I was staring, wasn't I? Apologies, that was rude of me.” Ebrisa smiled timidly, brushing the damp strands of hair she'd missed out of her face. “And forgive him as well. Its been a very trying journey for us.”

Feynriel cleared his throat and pulled his eyes away, blushing slightly. “It-its nothing. No harm done.” He dared a look at her again, the light from the window catching the lingering water in her hair. “Should we get going then?”

“Not just yet,” Cade cut in, moving out of the room. “Knight-Commander wants her to rest a day or two.” He looked the girl over, noticing the dewiness on her skin wasn't from the bath after all. “Seems to think she's sick or something.”

“Ebrisa was poisoned, but the nice man gave her medicine,” Vemara explained to the templar as Edan's eyes widened at her. The boy shot her a firm look, and she grew quiet, remembering their promise to Aveline.

“Poisoned?” Cade frowned at the young woman. “I should report this...”

“Please, do not trouble yourself.” Ebrisa tugged at the tight collar of her new robes, trying to cool her skin. “The apothecary said all I need now is rest. Please give the Knight-Commander my thanks for her concern.”

The templar sighed and motioned down the hall. “Very well. Let's get you to your room then.”

She nodded, then faced the boy again. “We'll see you later. Mind your new instructors.”

“Aye,” Edan grumbled.

“It was good to meet you, Serrah Feynriel,” Ebrisa said with a polite dip of her head. “Until tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” the teen hurried out as the girl walked away, moving to the doorway to stare after her. When he turned around to gather up his notebooks, he found his new room mate glaring intently at him. “So, uh, I didn't catch your name.”

“Edan,” he finally offered after several minuets of his angry gaze.

Feynriel nodded and cleared his throat, awkwardly moving around the boy to pick up his lesson supplies. “Well, Edan, I hope we get along.”

Glare still in place, Edan backed up to sit on his new bed. “That depends on how much of an eejit you plan on being.”

The half-elf let out a strained laugh and left the room, wondering once again how life would have been different if that Hawke woman had let him go to the Dalish instead. He was of course grateful for her rescue and admired her skill in taking down those slavers, but in his mother's clan he wouldn't be sharing a cell with a murderous little boy. Of course, that also meant he wouldn't be assigned tour guide to the long-haired girl about his age either. With a tiny smile and a faint heat on his cheeks, he thought for the first time that maybe the Circle wasn't so bad.  
~~~~~~~~~~  
Though Feynriel had only been in the Gallows a few months himself, he was eager to show Ebrisa around and insisted that if she had any questions, she should come to him first. She suspected his behavior had something to do with trying to get on Edan's good side. From what she heard, the young boy was unrelenting in his ire towards his room mate. Ebrisa didn't wait long to take him up on his offer and as soon as their lessons on the first day concluded for free time she sheepishly asked him for directions.

“Serrah Feynriel, could you perhaps tell me how to get to the chapel?” Ebrisa held her notebooks close to her chest, frowning slightly.

He quickly gathered up his own supplies as he watched her near pout, having to tell himself to not let his gaze linger. “Chapel? Uh, yes, of course.” Feynriel laughed awkwardly and racked his brain for the location, trying to remember the way from the one time he'd been there. “Let's go.”

Feynriel lead her out of the emptying room and into the corridor, doing his best to ignore the steely looks he so often received from his peers. Once they were clear of the others, he dared to start a conversation. “I haven't been able to get anything out of Edan about you.” Feynriel nearly bit his tongue for betraying him. “Your group, I mean.” He'd heard talk, of course, gossip was one of the few things the templars couldn't crack down on, but he wanted to hear it from the girl beside him.

“Oh, well... we come from Starkhaven's Circle,” she answered after a moment of silence.

He nodded, something he already knew, but pretended he didn't. “That explains Edan's accent, but why don't you or the little girl have it?”

“Vemara is from the alienage,” Ebrisa hesitantly replied. “From what I understand, the elves rarely mingled with even the working class humans and weren't exposed to the brogue enough to adopt it. From how Vemara tells it, I believe her mother was rather poor- not able to keep a roof over their heads or food in her belly. Her life really improved since going to the Circle. Well, before the fire, anyhow.”

Feynriel's mother had always been able to provide for them, mostly because the alienage took pity on the twice abandoned Dalish woman and helped her find work. He'd seen others living on the streets growing up, but didn't understand when he was younger that it wasn't by choice. In a way, he was glad Vemara left before she came to the heartbreaking realization herself. For a moment, his mind drifted to his mother and wondered how she was doing. No doubt being able to spring for luxuries now that she didn't have to care for him. He shook his head to rid it of the building anger and got his mind back on track.

“And you?” Feynriel coaxed. “I've heard no trace of burr pass your lips.” He'd been paying close attention to the area, after all.

Ebrisa pursed those lips now, forming more of a pout than earlier. “I'm not... from Starkhaven.”

“An outlaying farmstead?” It seemed unlikely, the young woman was far too fair-skinned to have spent her life working a field. “Or from one of the smaller city-states? You may not have Starkhaven's accent, but you definitely sound like a Marcher.”

Again, she hesitated. “No... that's not...” Orsino had asked her about her family, but she still felt the firm gaze of Raddick on the back of her head. Already, so much about this Circle was different. She was interacting with the other apprentices, being taught in a group instead of repetitive private lessons, and wasn't constantly guarded. Kirkwall seemed so much freer than Starkhaven had been, but she was reluctant to break the rule her old First Enchanter beat into her so firmly... sometimes literally.

But she couldn't lie, either.

“Yes, I'm from the Free Marches,” she relented and to her relief the male didn't press the issue further.

They came to a stop at a dead end and Feynriel swore quietly under his breath. He'd hoped he could direct them sufficiently, not wanting to appear incompetent after insisting he should be Ebrisa's first stop for answers, but he'd lead them astray somewhere along the way.

“I'm so sorry,” Ebrisa sighed out before he could do the same. “I must have distracted you.” She rubbed at her forehead and frowned again. “This is why I should stay quiet...” While that had certainly not been the case, Feynriel wasn't about to let the girl think she'd done wrong and mentally groaned as he prepared to come clean.

“What are you doing over here?”

The two mages jumped at the booming voice behind them and turned to face a very unamused templar. His clean shaven scalp made every wrinkle of his displeased stare stand out with the creases of his brow. His grey beard was well tended and matched his hard eyes in color. Feynriel swore under his breath again, recognizing the man instantly. The templar was not known for being understanding.

“Apologies, messere,” Ebrisa lowered her eyes and dipped slightly. “We were looking for the chapel and got turned around. Could you perhaps direct us?”

Ser Alrik scoffed at the excuse and waited for the mages to squirm and confess their true purpose. Feynriel began to sweat a little, the stories he'd heard of Alrik running through his head, but the blissfully unawares Ebrisa stayed perfectly still. When she pleaded a second time, the templar decided to take the pair there himself. If the apprentices wanted to drag the Chantry into their lies, then the Maker could bare witness to their intent.

The chapel was small for a Circle so large, the pews being able to accommodate for no more than twenty. Ebrisa was more than a little confused when she walked in, looking around at the sparse Andrastian imagery and stubs of candles. The most baffling thing about the chapel was that it was empty, not just of mages or templars, but sisters and mothers as well.

“A member of the clergy arrives twice a day to lead the Chant,” Alrik explained after being satisfied that the mage's confusion was genuine.

She didn't understand. Not at all. Shouldn't the sacred Templar Order require constant benedictions? Didn't the mages need spiritual assistance to keep temptation away? “And when will that be?”

The templar stepped back into the corridor. “The morning reading is at sunrise before breakfast, and the evening session at sunset before supper. Easy to remember.”

“Yes, thank you, messere,” Ebrisa mumbled as the man walked away, sluggishly returning to Feynriel's side.

From the disappointed look on her face, Feynriel knew the girl was a devote Andrastian. He should have figured that out when she asked him to take her to the chapel, but he honestly wasn't thinking about the _why_ so much as being alone with her. Her distraught mood made him uneasy, and the boy scrambled to fill the silence. “I don't think many people attend service here.”

“The space is small, so I suppose they've gotten used to handling their own spiritual needs.” Ebrisa sighed quietly, trying to rein in the displeasure. “Do you recite the Chant by yourself? Perhaps you could do nightly prayers with Edan.”

Feynriel made an uncomfortable noise, and rubbed his arm. He'd hoped to be able to avoid this as long as possible. “I'm, um... I was raised differently.”

“Oh,” Ebrisa gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth in mild horror. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to presume you to be spiritual.”

Again, that tight whine left the boy. “I am, or, my Mother was – is!”

She looked at him curiously. “Then what does she believe in?”

“The... Creators,” he relented softly.

“The Dalish gods?” Ebrisa's brows furrowed slightly. “Wouldn't that mean-”

“Yes, my mother is an elf,” Feynriel rushed out the words, wanting to get the conversation over with and prepared for the inevitable sound of disgust that ended every friendship he tried to start.

The sound she made was entirely unexpected. It was almost pleased. “Then maybe you can help Vemara decide what path she wants to follow.” Ebrisa studied the notebooks in her arms, missing the incredulous look Feynriel was giving her. “She's so young and I don't know where her heart lies. Of course, I would be delighted if she followed the Maker, but one forced into His Light can not truly feel its warmth. If the Creators have her devotion, I will not rob her of whatever comfort that belief grants.”

Feynriel continued to stare, even after she turned to him and blushed in embarrassment at the scrutiny. “I'm elf-blood,” he mumbled.

She tilted her head a little, as though confused. “Yes, I gathered that when you spoke of your mother.”

He felt foolish for his worry then. The girl walking beside him had been caring for a full-blooded elven child for weeks and now shared a room with the little one. If Ebrisa had any negative opinions of elves, she would have expressed something a long time ago. “Mythal'enaste...”

Ebrisa laughed quietly. “I'm sorry, what?”

Feynriel flushed, realizing he'd said it out loud. “Oh, nothing.” He tried to laugh it off, but in the back of his mind he wondered if it would be more appropriate to be thanking the Maker instead.

~~~~~~~~~~  
Sister Yedda held back a groan as she made her way to the Gallows chapel. The trip from the Chantry cathedral to the Circle was a long, but necessary one for the templar shift change but the young sister never felt it worth the clergy's time. The services they performed twice a day were always to an empty room, as the templars had leave to attend a proper reading in the city and the mages were too far gone in their wickedness to even bother to set foot inside the small room.

She stepped through the doorway and walked straight to the pulpit, finding the ornate bookmark resting on the passage the previous sister left off at in the worn copy of the Chant of Light. _Threnodies 12_. Fitting, for such a place. With a small clearing of her throat, Sister Yedda began going through the motions to open the service before reading the verse.

“ _Those who had sought to claim Heaven by violence destroyed it.”_

A second voice joined her and she stumbled slightly, but continued on.

_“What was Golden and pure turned black._

_Those who had once been mage-lords,_

_The brightest of their age,_

_Were no longer men, but monsters.”_

 

At the end of the full stanza, Sister Yedda placed the marker for the morning service and raised her eyes to face the lone figure seated in the pews, a young mage with head bowed and clasped hands to her forehead in reverence. When she noticed the sister was going no further, she straightened and lowered her hands, though kept them woven together.  
“Are... are we waiting for the others before continuing?” Ebrisa asked softly.

The cleric shook her head. “There will be no others, and it is time I return to the Chantry.”

“Oh...” The mage looked down, a mixture of confusion and disappointment on her face. Yedda nodded and moved away from the pulpit, heading for the entryway. “Wait, please, Sister?”

She turned to the now standing mage, curious. “Yes?”

Ebrisa was suddenly hesitant, ashamed. “Do... do you have time for confession?”

That explained it. The mage had done something amiss and sought the Maker's forgiveness. “I am only a lay sister. That is not a service I can perform.”

“Do you know when an invested member of the clergy will be here?”

Yedda frowned a little, wondering what the mage could have done. “They do not come out here, as the need within the city proper is too great.” When she turned to leave again, she was called to once more.

“May... may I have your benediction, Sister?” The request was so soft that had there been even one more person in the room, it would have been too quiet to hear.

The sister smiled, despite herself. “That, at least, I can do.”

 


	3. Focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking some artistic license with the Gallows' academic structure. I know that you see a bit in Origins and 'Asunder' takes place in the White Spire, but I feel that each Circle of Magi would be handled a little differently. Since Meredith took over in 9:21 Dragon, apprentice education shifted from mentors to classes. Some mentors do still function, but usually only after proving themselves in some way.

The base schools of study were divided amongst four instructors in the Gallows, apprentices seeing all four on book lesson days and only two on practical lesson days. With the exception of Sunday being free time – intended for worship and individual betterment – the lesson days alternated between two in a classroom and one in a hall, where they would put what they studied to use one day a week with each instructor. Ebrisa's first practical lesson was equal parts horrifying and humiliating.

Senior Enchanter Judith called up the students one by one to cast a spirit bolt at the target across the study hall. It was a simple spell, her goal not to have them break the worn statue but to study their manipulation of energy. How quickly they summoned it, how compactly they held it, how controlled their focus of it was. Judith often used the exercise as a warm up, taking notes on each apprentice to see how they progressed from the week before. It usually didn't take long to run through the whole class.

Templars stood on either side of the doorway, watching for signs of wavering control as they did with every lesson and ready to step in if things got out of hand. Their presence made many of the mages nervous, feeling the silent judgment from instructor and templar alike. Feynriel was one of those nervous mages and he tried his best to ignore the eyes on him and focus the basic energy into his hands. He held his palms over each other as his classmates had, feeling the power build. It sparked to life and with a determined thrust of his arms, he launched the bolt across the room where it fizzled out just short of the target. His peers snickered behind him and the boy felt his face redden.

“That went a whole tile farther than last week,” Judith said as encouragingly as she could. “You are still loosing much of the energy when you move to direct it. Focus, Feynriel. Focus.”

“Yes, Senior Enchanter,” he grumbled, knowing he'd be spending much of the session doing simple drills once again.

The aging woman flipped to a fresh page on the writing board as her newest student stepped up to the marker. The Starkhaven mage seemed bright and Judith was eager to see her apply that knowledge. “Go ahead, child.”

Ebrisa's heart pounded in her chest as she moved her shaking hands into place. She knew how to cast the spell, in theory, but had never intentionally done anything like this before. Steady breaths calmed some of her nerves and she focused on the mana coursing through her, feeling it pulse in her veins as she directed it to her hands. A spirit bolt was truly little more than pure magic energy gathered into a ball and hurled at a target. No incantation, no intricate arm movement, just form and shoot. Easy. It was easy.

She inhaled sharply when the first bit of light appeared in her hands, staring at it as the brightness intensified and the crackling grew larger.

Judith nodded and jotted down her observations, waiting for the mage to fire the bolt. Instead, the energy only built, bordering on unstable. “Release it, child.”

“I-I don't...” Ebrisa continued to stare, her mind blanking on how to discharge the spell.

“Release it,” the senior enchanter repeated, darting her eyes to the templars at the door and noting how their posture changed. She'd be damned if she let them cleanse one of her students. Just as she was about to cross the floor, the energy exploded between Ebrisa's fingers, flying out in all directions and sending the young apprentice back with a yelp of surprise.

Ebrisa landed on her behind, eyes scrunched closed and hands held up as the crack of her failed spell slowly faded in the quiet room. Someone laughed. Then another, and soon most of the class was having a good chuckle as Ebrisa sat on the tiles and tried to calm herself. Though her face burned from embarrassment, she was relieved that at least no one was injured.

“That was... something.” Judith offered her hand and helped the girl up, smiling sympathetically. The First Enchanter had warned her that the Starkhaven mage was inexperienced, but she had not expected this level of inadequacy. She toyed briefly with the idea of placing Ebrisa with the beginners for practical lessons, but decided to wait until the other instructors evaluated the girl. “Why don't you and Feynriel run drills in the corner while I work with the others, hmm?”

And so they did, the boy talking her through the simple moves and feeling more like Ebrisa's tutor than a poorly performing pupil himself. He understood how to cast the spells, but there was just something holding him back when it came time to release. It was beyond frustrating to feel the power inside him but not being able to wield it and he wondered if the girl was the same way.

 

It took two weeks or so for Ebrisa to become used to taking lessons with others. She found the constant chatter of her peers both distracting and disrespectful, taking it upon herself to sit as close to the instructor as possible to block out the less-than-focused apprentices.

When Ebrisa walked into her Elemental and Primal lesson to find Alain sitting there, she didn't know which of them was more surprised to see the other, but it was definitely her that squeaked and dropped her books. “Serrah Alain! What- I didn't think any other mages from Starkhaven made it.”

The olive-skinned mage sighed and shook his head. “I should have run earlier. The things Decimus did...” He shivered. “It is no wonder mages are so feared.”

Stooping to gather what she dropped, Ebrisa wondered how many of their group condemned Decimus's actions, but were too fearful to leave his side. Perhaps they stayed their hands during the templar slaughter simply out of shock. Still, she had not seen anyone else arrive in the Gallows.

As if sensing her thoughts, Alain continued. “Decimus is dead. If not for Ser Thrask and Serrah Hawke, I would have shared his fate.”

“Hawke?” Feynriel folded his arms and rolled his eyes. “That woman really likes sticking her nose in everyone's business.”

“Well it was certainly appreciated in mine,” Alain sighed tiredly. “That Ser Karras... he would have struck me down right there, I'm certain.” He watched curiously as Ebrisa sat down and readied her things. Before the fire, he'd only seen the blonde girl in passing and always with a templar escort, making him think she was dangerous or special somehow. The journey from Starkhaven had put both of those thoughts to rest and it made her solitude all the stranger. What did First Enchanter Raddick know that he didn't tell Orsino? There had to have been a reason for all that.

~~~~~~~~~  
While Alton and Judith expressed worries, Senior Enchanter Oswall saw no reason for concern with Ebrisa Trevelyan's progress. (Berenice was also confident with the girl's abilities, but grinding and mixing plants really had little to do with the situation.) Ebrisa had been shaky at first, yes, but as the weeks wore on she was making great strides in his lessons, more so on the Creation side than the Arcane. It occurred to the balding man that the girl could simply not be cut out for offensive magic, and while there was nothing wrong with that, she would have to learn at least enough to protect herself.

Three months in, Oswall was able to convince the others to let the girl have a crack at staffs, hoping the added focus would allow her to get a feel for directing energy at those awful Tevinter statues. The first attempt fell on Alton's watch and after pairing up students to take turns hurling fireballs at the others rock armor, he pulled the quiet girl to the side.

“Here, take this.” He held out a very basic wooden staff, no blade or weighted head or enchantments beyond the focus. It was so plain looking, in fact, that she had no idea what it was.

Ebrisa did as she was told and wrapped her fingers around the pole, feeling a tug on her chest as all her blood seemed to gravitate to the object. It stole her breath and wiped her mind of thought, clearing everything for a few brief moments as she stood at the end of the practice hall with her instructor. Her body quickly adapted to the tingling and she took a deep breath before raising her questioning eyes to the bearded man.

“You can feel it, can't you?” Alton removed his own elaborate staff from his back. “The power flowing through you and the staff, circulating the connection.” He adjusted his hands, demonstrating to the girl how to hold the focus. “Watch me closely, Trevelyan. I'm gathering mana, like normal, but it is now coursing through the the staff. Do you see?”

There was a faint shimmer over the polished wood and Ebrisa nodded.

“Now, because of this, a simple snap of the wrist can send out the energy.” Alton accentuated his point by flipping the staff and pointing the ornate head at the target, releasing a burst of frost and creating a small patch of ice on the wall. “This staff is enchanted, but a normal focus – like the one you're holding – will create something similar to a spirit bolt.” He returned to his previous posture and inclined his head. “Give that a try. No incantation, no special move. Just gather the energy and release it down the end of the staff.”

Ebrisa chewed on her bottom lip as she readied herself, taking a stance similar to the senior enchanter. She directed the flow to the staff, concentrating the faint trickle already there to a more tangible degree. Alton called out words of encouragement and instructed her to take a shot, the confidence in his voice undermined by the scuffling of his retreating feet. After all, Ebrisa's aim hadn't been the best.

She snapped the staff towards the wall, willing the energy to leave the deceptively plain looking piece of wood and actually go where she wanted it to. The shriek of surprise Ebrisa let out was far louder than the crack of energy as the bolt shot from the end of the staff and crashed into the ice Alton had formed only a few moments before. She stared at the fractured ice, watching pieces break off and fall to the floor.

“Good,” Alton sounded just as surprised as his student. He cleared his throat and moved back to his original position. “Let's do that again, shall we? Gather the energy back up.” The apprentice did as she was told, finding repeating the action took far less time than the first attempt. “Now bring the incantation for a fireball into your mind. Release when you are ready.”

Fire cleansed. It was warm and sacred and through it, Andraste acceded to the Maker's side. But a mage's flame was dangerous, destructive. There was no purpose for magical fire beyond harming others, and she could not convince herself to create an intentional blaze. Her previous attempts had been weak, restrained for fear of burning out of control, and she held no delusions that the focus the staff granted her would stop that.

Holding back more than before, Ebrisa lifted her left hand from the staff and recited the simple incantation. She shot out her hand, snapping it firmly in place and keeping her eyes on the melting target on the wall. The mage hoped for a lick of flame large enough to satisfy her instructor. Just enough of a spell to allow her to step out of the man's scrutinizing gaze.

The heat and light that erupted from her palm reduced the remaining ice to steam in an instant with a blaze far greater than anyone expected. Ebrisa dropped the staff to the floor, the wood clattering noisily in the silent room as she stared at the scorch marks blotting the wall with wispy, black tendrils snaking from the large center. The other apprentices had stopped their own practice at the roar of her fire and looked at her with an array of expressions, none of which were pleased or approving.

“Maker's Mercy, child,” Alton managed to get out, breaking the silence. “I'd say you won't be needing a focus for that spell. Maybe hold back a little next time?”

Ebrisa nodded numbly, still surveying the damage as a shiver ran down her spine.

She _had_ held back.  
~~~~~~~~~~  
When free time came, Ebrisa ignored lunch and hurried to the small courtyard just off the hall, needing air and space and a chance to gather her nerves again. The normally comforting feeling she got from working on healing magic and protective barriers did little to ease the rattling of her thoughts. If anyone noticed, they didn't say. No one said anything to her at all. Alton's lesson continued quietly but the next was filled with harsh whispers drifting across the hall. Even Feynriel was weary of her.

The yard was rarely used and Ebrisa welcomed the seclusion the open area gave her. She sank to the flagstones, running her fingers along the cracks until they brushed the weeds poking through. One burst of fire and all of the overgrown, unattended greenery in the yard would be gone. She could do that, destroy the struggling life here, and the thought frightened her. Ebrisa shook her head fiercely, gripping the plant between her fingers until she felt it give. She looked down at the weed in her hand, then to the others across the tiles and the determined patches where stone no longer existed. Fire from her hands could destroy everything here, but her hands could also remove the strangling hold that prevented the small bushes and trees from flourishing.

She systematically worked her way across the flagstones, pulling out weeds and pushing away all thoughts save the task at hand. It helped calm her and she returned the next few days to clear the shrubbery of unintended plants. Her work wasn't going unnoticed, but neither was it reported. In fact, her observer was content to just brush off the behavior until he caught the mage with a pair of pruning sheers.

Ebrisa snipped the wayward branch free and turned around to place it in the pile, smacking the templar standing behind her in the face. She flushed red with horror and pulled the foliage away, staring at a very unamused Fereldan. “Kni-Knight-Captain! Forgive me, I didn't mean to – are you okay?”

“I am fine, mage,” Cullen responded quickly. “The more pressing issue concerns _those_.” He pointed to the sharp garden tool in her hand.

“The pruning sheers?” She looked down at the bound blades, dropping her other hand and nearly hitting Cullen with the branch again. He'd been prepared this time and easily sidestepped.

“Apprentices are not permitted to use any equipment unsupervised.”

She knew that. Oh, _of course_ she knew that! She just didn't realize it extended to the herbalism lessons as well. “Ri-right. Apologies, Knight-Captain... I wasn't thinking.”

Cullen hummed and folded his arms, deciding it had been an honest mistake. “What are you doing, exactly? Is this a punishment?” He normally would have heard about any reprimands and the idea of the senior enchanters enforcing order on their own did not sit well with him at all.

“No, Knight-Captain. I just...” Ebrisa lowered her eyes and her voice. “I just wanted to be useful and... its rather soothing.”

The templar looked around, taking note of how much brighter the normally off-putting enclosed yard was. The Gallows did employ grounds keepers, but their main focus were the large gardens that provided the Circle with its much needed herbs, not the neglected yards dotting the fortress.

Cullen sighed and held out his hand, the mage carefully placing the sheers in his grip and staying quiet as he left. Ebrisa looked back to the half pruned shrub and wondered if it actually looked worse than it did before she started snipping at it.

The sound of clanking armor that she had missed earlier echoed over the high walls and Ebrisa turned to face the doorway as Cullen returned with a gray-haired templar in tow. He strode right up to the mage and held out the sheers. “Give these to Ser Emeric when you are done and he'll see them returned to the crafting room. Be quick about it, he doesn't have all day to stand around watching you.”

“I... yes.” Ebrisa took the garden tool, not entirely sure what was going on.

“I will speak with the Knight-Commander for her permission, should you need to _feel useful_ in the other yards. Though I doubt she would object to someone actually caring how this place looks.” Cullen tapped the sheers and raised a brow. “Just be sure to _ask_ a templar _before_ you take these next time.”

The mage held back her nervous laughter and couldn't keep the templar's firm gaze for more than a second. “I will.”

Cullen nodded and headed back inside.

“Knight-Captain!”

He paused and looked at the mage over his shoulder, the girl seeming just as surprised as he was by her call. “Yes?”

Ebrisa froze up, unsure why she had shouted at him. “I...” She lowered her head and studied her dirty robes. “Thank you...”

Cullen nodded. “Well, the more inviting the place is, the more likely people are to use it. Maybe this will coax your fellows out of the corners and into a bit of sunshine.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
His tutor ate up much of his free time, making the amount Edan could spend with Ebrisa and Vemara – because Vemara was _always_ there – much too short. He used to catch her every morning when Feynriel and her headed off to their lessons, but the older boy had stopped walking with her. Edan was glad of it at first, hoping his roommate had finally realized the girl was beyond him and ceased his foolish attempts at flirting. Feynriel always denied he was flirting and all his efforts went over the girl's head, but Edan knew exactly what he was doing. Or rather, he _had_ known.

A shadow passed over Ebrisa's face each time another apprentice ignored her greeting or turned around at the sight of her and Edan grew irritated. He hated seeing her upset. Ebrisa wouldn't say she was and quickly recovered from the pang of hurt to slip her smiling mask back on and continue playing. Vemara was too young or too naïve to notice the older girl was hiding her feelings, but Edan couldn't have seen it plainer than if Ebrisa was holding a plank of wood to her head with a smilie face painted on it.

After coming to the realization that she wouldn't divulge any information about it herself, Edan decided to confront his roommate.

“Eejit,” the boy called out from across their quarters, making the blonde jump.

Feynriel turned to him with a mild glare, yanking back the covers of his bed in preparation to go to sleep. “What, Edan? And please stop calling me that.”

“Stop responding to it, and I just might.” The boy folded his legs underneath him, sitting on his own bed. “Or just stop being one.”

The blonde rolled his eyes, far too tired to deal with whatever was coming. “Does this beratement have a specific topic tonight?”

“Aye,” Edan drew out the word, ending it with a firm scowl. “I want to know why you and yours are giving Ebrisa the cold shoulder.”

“I'm – we're not.”

The younger boy let out a nearly visible puff of air through his flared nostrils. “Oh? I've not heard a single one of you say two words around her.” When Feynriel still refused to acknowledge his behavior, Edan flung his pillow across the room and nailed the half-blood in the back of the head.

“What is your problem?” Feynriel snapped, chucking the pillow back at the child.

“That's what _I_ want to know,” Edan snapped back. “How can you go from fawning over someone to pretending they don't even exist? What happened last week?”

The room fell quiet as the child gave Feynriel yet another chance to explain himself. As the quiet dragged on, Edan growled in annoyance and reached down for one of his shoes.

“Okay, okay!” The blonde held out a hand, prepared to block the much heavier projectile in case his answer wasn't what the other boy wanted to hear. “Ebrisa... she was pretty frightening.”

Edan eased back onto his bed, the dirty shoe no longer within easy reach. “Frightening? Her?”

“Well, her magic, at least.” Feynriel plopped down onto his mattress. “It was just... _so much_ fire. It only burned for a moment, but it was if the spell swallowed all the air in the room. No one was more surprised than Ebrisa... she had that much power in her hands and she couldn't control it at all.”

Again, the room fell silent and Feynriel braced for another missile attack. Instead, the thing that cut through the air was a snort. “Let me get this straight,” Edan began. “You're scared of sweet Ebrisa because she doesn't have complete control of her magic? You're avoiding her because she is just like every other apprentice here?”

Feynriel opened his mouth to argue that it was much more than that, but hearing the reason simplified really put it into perspective. Every mage in the Circle was there because they had a power that others feared, because they needed help mastering their abilities. He knew Ebrisa had very little practical experience with casting, but still Feynriel fell in with the others. By isolating her because they feared her, they were acting no better than a village mob descending upon a newly awakened mage.

The half-elf let out a tired chuckle, falling back against his bed. “Has anyone ever told you you're too smart for your age?”

“I like to think I'm just the appropriate amount of clever, and you're just an eejit.”

 


	4. All Soul's Day

The sky was barely beginning to lighten, but already Ebrisa was dressed and sitting patiently in the quiet chapel. It was the first day of the eighth month and though it was not a Sunday, the mages had been given leave of their studies to observe the holiday. Most planned to monopolize on the extra free time and sleep in or mingle with those they rarely got to see, others take the chance to hunt the library for the rumored bit of erotica hidden from chantry eyes. Legend had it that a former mage of the Circle wrote the tale and enchanted it to move around the shelves to keep it from the templars. No one ever admitted to finding or reading it, but no one ever admitted to looking for it either.

It was well past breakfast when Ebrisa began to grow concerned by the lack of clergy. On any other day, a sister would have already arrived, read the bare minimum, and left by now. The mage had thought that, given the holiday, a proper service might be held, but for not even a reading to occur... But it was absurd to think the Chantry would ignore the Gallows on such a day. There was an issue at the docks or some other perfectly reasonable explanation for the clergy's tardiness.

Ebrisa gazed up at the lone piece of art in the chapel, a tapestry depicting Andraste's vision to Havard after her death. It was Fereldan in make, a strange thing to see in the Orlais-influenced Free Marches, but beautiful and woven with care and faith.

The mage got up from the pew and found the small crate of red candles, setting it on the floor beside the rod iron stand. She removed the melted stubs of the spent candles and replaced them with fresh ones, leaving one in her hand as she knelt before the alter. The sisters were only running late and Ebrisa wouldn't mind starting over once they arrived, but she could sit still no longer and lit the candle in her hand with the dwindling flame from last night's reading.

“ _Hear now, Andraste, daughter of Brona,_

_Spear-maid of Alamarr, to valiant hearts sing_

_Of victory waiting, yet to be claimed from_

_The steel-bond forgers of barren Tevene.”_

  
No, the Chantry could not have forgotten them. Not today.  
~~~~~~~~~

Knight-Commander Meredith walked through the corridors, taking stock of what the mages were doing in their free time. Some she watched closer than others – like the Starkhaven mages that had to be hunted down. Each one they found had been sent to isolation and put to questioning, the apprentices that came after Alain subjected to the Harrowing almost immediately and three who had resisted too strongly were executed. Someone had lied to Karras and the Order thought the others dead, but the troublesome mages slowly fell into the templar's hands one by one. Grace, in particular, would require careful observation for at least a little while longer.

As she turned down another corridor, Meredith could hear a faint chorus of voices and followed it suspiciously to the source.

“ _In the solitude of the night, Maferath dwelled in his bitterness,_

_And the Light which once burned within him extinguished.”_

 

A few templars sat on the chapel's pews, a mage seated in the back, and the small group drifted in and out of the Chant as a young woman lead them through the _Canticle of Apotheosis_. The blonde mage had her back to the leather bound text, fixing her eyes instead on the flame dancing on the candle's wick. Meredith tilted her head ever so slightly, wondering if it was some sort of scheme or misdirection. Whatever the reason, the Knight-Commander pulled herself away and continued her patrol.

~~~~~~~~~

She'd heard people wander in and out all day, but had still not been interrupted by a member of the clergy. In the back of her mind Ebrisa was using the candles to keep track of the time, and through the steady stream of scripture she realized it was well past lunch, possibly approaching supper.

“ _And I looked up and saw_

_The seven gates of the Black City shatter,_

_And darkness cloaked both realms.”_

 

Ebrisa inhaled to begin the next verse, but her dry throat seized and she began to cough. She turned her face away to avoid extinguishing the candles and the twisting only served to draw attention to the ache in her back. As the coughing subsided, someone offered her a metal cup of water.

“Drink it slowly. There's no sense in having you cough again.”

She did as instructed, sipping the liquid and feeling its coolness slide all the way down her throat and into her empty stomach. The voice waited for her to get half way through the cup before speaking again.

“Might I ask just what it is you're doing?”

Ebrisa raised her eyes to the voice, finding the Knight-Commander staring down at her. “It's All Soul's Day,” Ebrisa answered in her now raspy voice, taking another sip of water before continuing. “I was waiting for a sister to arrive.”

Meredith frowned slightly. “They are all in the city. The plays and services they do throughout the day require many hands.”

The mage furrowed her brow in confusion, having trouble accepting the Chantry would abandon them on their most sacred holiday. Then again, given the lack of service attendance she'd seen over the months, maybe the Gallows didn't want that kind of attention. One side had given up long ago, forcing the other to no longer try. It broke Ebrisa's heart to think which side was which.

“Finish that up and come with me,” Meredith ordered, though considerably softer than the last time she spoke. Ebrisa complied, and awkwardly held the empty cup as she followed the Knight-Commander through the Gallows. She winced with each step, her ankles and knees protesting being crushed against the stone floor for so long and her back still throbbing from her earlier twist. The woman glanced back at her and made a slight detour to her office, shoving a flask into her belt pouch and replacing the cup in Ebrisa's startled hands with a full canteen.

They crossed the entry courtyard, Meredith calling out to her second that she would be in Hightown, before moving down the steps to the docks. A group of templars were preparing to depart, but stopped at the sight of their commander and made room on the vessel for her and the trailing mage. Once they were underway, Meredith pulled out the flask and held it out to the young woman.

“Knight-Commander?” Ebrisa stared at the container in confusion.

“I do not believe you actually saw much of Kirkwall when you arrived,” Meredith began. “Hightown is very... high, and there are many steps in your immediate future. This is one of Solivitus' potions and it will ease the pain in your joints and that crackle in your voice.”

“Oh. Um, thank you...” The mage took the bottle and popped the cork. “The whole thing?”

“Unless you prefer to only have one good leg,” Meredith nearly chuckled, drawing a few looks from the templars closest to her.

Ebrisa downed the bottle, gagging slightly at the taste and understanding why she'd been given the canteen earlier. She washed down the potion and coughed a little, though her throat and back no longer spasmed when she did so. The rest of the journey was spent in silence and Ebrisa was thankful when they docked and started on the stairs, the clanking of the multiple suits of armor filling the awkward quiet. Meredith had not been exaggerating about the steps and by the time they climbed the final set into Hightown the sun was beginning to dip. Ebrisa let her eyes wander over the shops in the market and the steep walls of the homes, paying little mind to where it was they were actually going until they reached a final set of stairs.

The bells of the Chantry rang out across the reddening buildings, signaling the hour and drawing Ebrisa's eyes upward. Past the chanter's board, past the steep stairs, the many weapon wielding bronze statues caught the diminishing light and froze her in place. So unlike the figures decorating the Gallows in both style and intent. Tevinter saw fit to remind its captives of the torturous life they would lead, but the Chantry hoped to inspire perseverance and faith. The two larger statues in particular seemed to stare out over the city and the harbor straight to the Circle as if telling the chained metal forms there to have hope.

“You will not be able to hear the service from out here,” Meredith's voice sounded, breaking the mage from her daze. “This will be the last one for the day, so we better get moving if you hope to find a seat.”

Though her throat was recovered, Ebrisa had trouble finding her voice and could only nod her understanding before hurrying after the armored woman. Meredith climbed the stairs with solid, confident steps, trailing only slightly behind the templars who gathered outside the open door, removing their helmets. They had come as followers of the Chantry, not swords of it, and would show proper respect to the Maker's Bride in His house.

Ebrisa struggled to keep pace, trying to hold her robes up enough to make the climb, but her fingers were getting weary from the constant clutching and a few of the heavy layers slipped from her grasp. She stepped on the fabric and lurched forward, letting out a startled squeak by the sudden jerking and tried to brace for impact. A firm hand on her upper arm caught Ebrisa mere inches from smashing her nose into the stone and yanked her back to her feet.

Meredith's eyes were filled with concern as she looked the young woman over. “Are you alright, Ame-” She stopped herself and looked away, her grip tightening from secure to painful and Ebrisa sucked in a breath through her teeth. After a moment, the knight-commander returned her gaze to the girl, all trace of emotion gone. “A misstep here can be dangerous.” The mage nodded and Meredith released her, though stayed close as they walked into the Chantry.

The familiar scent of incense wafted through the entry hall, far more potent than the lingering hints the clergy carried with them to the Gallows, hidden under the sea spray of their journey across the harbor. No matter the location or size, all Chantries smelled the same. The same incense, the same candles, the same tangy smoke from the braziers. Past the entryway, the space opened up to high coffered ceilings painted a deep blue with shining dots of some kind of metal that made the squares look like patches of the night sky. Higher still, buttresses ran along the center of the entire chapel, drawing the eye to the row of skylights cutting across the roof. At the end of the space, surrounded by candles and windows and the peace of the Chantry stood the lone statue of Andraste, towering over all other figures in the city and – despite being fully armored and holding a massive sword – she filled Ebrisa with a sense of serenity.

As Meredith thought, the Chantry was rather full, but the templars were able to secure an empty pew on the second level. The wood groaned in protest against the weight of all their armor and the location made seeing the Grand Cleric at the pulpit as she opened the service impossible, but Ebrisa didn't mind. She focused on the voice of the Mother, the rhythm of the Chant as she joined in, the sweetness of the hymns sprinkled throughout while she added her meek alto, and the scent of the Chantry.

She closed her eyes and imagined she was in Ostwick's cathedral, sitting beside her family as they had every week. She remembered listening to Sister Alicia's testimony when she was little and wanting to speak to the congregation as well, sneaking away and rushing to the closed off doors that lead to the pulpit's platform. There had been a rope over the stairs, preventing her from climbing them... and she tugged at the barrier, growing frustrated... then the rope erupted in flames, all on its own. She heard a muffled scream and spun around to find her mother in the doorway, horror and disbelief in her frantic eyes as she surveyed the scene. The fire spread from the rope, catching the wooden steps, and her mother quickly knocked over a lantern to fall into the growing blaze before grabbing her small hand and dragging her from the room. _“What have you done, you wicked thing?”_

 

Ebrisa snapped her eyes open at the commotion of clanking armor, finding the service over and the Chantry beginning to empty. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks and remembered something she had to do. “Knight-Commander Meredith?” Her voice was barely audible over the clamor of the departing faithful, but the woman sitting beside her turned as though she heard. “May I go to confession?”

It took Meredith time to answer, weighing the options and wondering if the mage had any ulterior motives to her request. “Ser Alrik will show you to the confessional.” She shot a look at the bald man, already standing. “I will find a sister.”

Ebrisa recognized the man as the one who'd shown her to the Gallows' chapel and nodded timidly at him before he lead her through the crowd to the small row of enclosed booths. She stepped in and knelt on the small, padded stool, trying to rein in the pounding in her chest as she waited for the clergy. She heard voices outside arguing quietly before they moved away and then the soft click of the booth's other door closing. There was a rustling of fabric, then a creak of wood, signaling that the cleric was ready on the other side.

“Welcome, child.” It was a male voice, something she hadn't expected, but the familiar Starkhaven accent caught her even more off guard. “Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sins.”

“Go-good evening, Brother,” Ebrisa whispered. She cleared her throat and gathered up her courage. “Forgive me, Brother, for I have sinned. It has been five months since my last confession. I did not want this feeling to fester.”

“The Chantry is open at all hours. You needn't wait for a holiday to seek solace here.”

“I'm afraid I did not have access. Today's visit is an unexpected kindness from the Knight-Commander.”

The brother hummed softly. “This was the second service she attended today, but you did not come here to discuss the Knight-Commander.”

She tugged on her robes nervously. “I... I have used my magic for ill. I have harmed and I... I have killed.”

There was a pause, the brother taking in what was said. “Could you clarify these acts?”

“There was a man on the Wounded Coast,” Ebrisa began hesitantly. “He had a blade and tried to rob us, but we didn't have anything. I told him, but he didn't believe me. The man made a move for Edan and I... heated his weapon. The smell of his skin burning...” She shook her head, trying to focus. “He dropped it and ran, but not before the damage had been done to his hand. I doubt he will be able to wield a blade for some time.”

The brother shifted slightly, his robes brushing against his side of the dividing wall. “And the killing? Was that also a man who threatened you?”

“No, Brother. Vemara was hungry and... the Circle was still so far away.” Ebrisa rubbed her forehead. “It was a nug... I didn't let Vemara see it, because I knew it would upset her.” They'd seen many of the things running around after they fled the convoy and the child kept cooing at the animals. If Vemara ever learned she had actually eaten one, well, Ebrisa was confident the elf would never speak to her again.

A muffled noise drifted through the fabric screen in the dividing wall, sounding suspiciously similar to laughter. “Child, these are not sins.”

“They are! My magic-”

“-Was used to defend others and care for them,” the brother cut in. “ _Magic exists to serve man._ Does that not include protecting the helpless? Providing for them?”

Ebrisa was quiet, the cleric's words conflicting with everything she had been taught. “I... I do not wish to harm others.”

“And that is a fine thing, but it is not always so black and white. If you had not stopped that man, do you think he would have hesitated to strike this Edan? If you had not hunted that animal, do you think this Vemara would have made it to the Gallows?” He paused, as if waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued. “The Maker understands necessity and there is reason for use of all his gifts, be it a templar's blade or a mage's spell. Sometimes, to help, you must hurt.”

“How...” Ebrisa's voice failed her and she tried again. “How do you know when that is?”

“You listen to your heart and have faith in the Maker. His Light will guide you.”

 

The night journey back to the Gallows was much more tense and the templars kept their sword hands at the ready as they crossed Lowtown and descended to the docks. Once on the vessel, they relaxed and chatted lightly amongst themselves, Ebrisa still lost in the brother's words.

“Cullen tells me the interior yards are seeing much more activity, due to your efforts,” Meredith said quietly at the mage's side. “You... enjoy gardening?”

“I find it calming...” Ebrisa admitted, pursing her lips slightly. “I enjoy doing something constructive, something _good,_ with my hands. And there is something satisfying about seeing others enjoy your hard work.”

Meredith hummed in agreement. “Too often one's efforts are ignored.” She studied the girl for what seemed the hundredth time, paying close attention to her face and body language. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen, no, today makes me fifteen,” Ebrisa answered softly, fiddling with her fingers. “Thank you for letting me attend the All Soul's Day service. I had missed the peace of the Chantry greatly.” She turned to the woman, hoping to convey how grateful she truly was with her smile.

Meredith returned a small smile of her own, eyes a little sad. “Well then, Happy Birthday.”

Ebrisa giggled, drawing the attention of a few templars at the bubbling sound. “Thank you, Knight-Commander.”

 


	5. Trampled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9:34 Dragon

Months went by and, though still reluctant to use her magic for harm, Ebrisa was doing much better in her lessons. The initial trepidation her classmates showed her diminished as her control grew and slowly they tried to include her in conversations. She was never very good at holding them, not prone to easy gossip and would redden at the mere mention of what the other girls her age wished to do to the boys. When Blaine sighed wistfully about wanting to see an enchanter or two out of their frumpy robes, Ebrisa had to excuse herself and leave the room as the eager agreements of the other girls rang in her burning ears.

When spring came, she found a package in her quarters with simple gardening supplies and a small sacks of bulbs. Meredith, it would seem, was encouraging her new hobby. Ebrisa's mother had cultivated an appreciation for flowers in her daughters, but never permitted them to do any planting themselves as dirt had no place under a lady's nails. Not wanting to ruin the unexpected – and uncharacteristic – gift from the Knight-Commander, Ebrisa spent an entire week of free time studying the subject.

When she felt confident enough, she carefully transferred some of the shrubbery in the mage yard to planters so there was space enough for the bulbs. She didn't know what kind of plant they would grow to be and became immensely dirty during the process, but Ebrisa didn't care and tended to the seemingly empty patches of soil for months before anything poked through. Others began to watch the sprouts with interest if for no reason other than figuring out what the blonde was up to. Then one summer afternoon as she entered the yard with a pail to water the plants, she saw Meredith standing in front of one section while a small group gathered around the other. The Knight-Commander turned at her approach and smiled, one that reached all the way to her usually hard eyes.

Ebrisa stood beside the woman and looked down at the blossomed plants. They smelled wonderful and resembled embrium, but looked nothing like the kind depicted in herbalism texts. It was fortunate, as they almost seemed too beautiful to grind up anyways.

“Orchids were her favorite...” Meredith whispered, only loud enough for the blonde mage at her side to catch. Without another word, the woman left and a few more people came over to gush at the flowers. The delighted look on their faces made Ebrisa return to the library and study even more.

That's how it went, lessons broken up with planting bulbs in the autumn to bloom by spring and others nestled in soil in springtime to brighten the summer months. Ebrisa was taken from the Gallows once a year to attend the All Soul's Day service and she saw the act of kindness as a reward for her silly little hobby. After all, it was hard for others to grumble when the scent of flowers drifted in through a window.

 

Most of the templars became used to the sight of her tending the yards, her curly hair pulled back and out of the way in a low bun or a long braid snaking down her hunched back. She was no longer supervised during this activity, the Knight-Commander having stated there were far more pressing matters to attend to and the single mage had more or less proven her devotion to the task.

The yard in the Templar Hall had been, unfortunately, rather neglected recently and one of the flower beds was in a terrible state. Most of the weeds pulled free easily, but there was one particularly stubborn piece that had managed to wind itself around the shrub's roots. Ebrisa tugged on it, then moved her feet under her to get better leverage and tried again.

Her odd grunting and mildly threatening coaxing drew the attention of a black-haired templar apprentice. He'd only recently earned his knighthood and was not privy to most of the goings on involving mages, but he did know one thing for certain – mages were not allowed in the Templar Hall without an escort. “What are you doing?”

Ebrisa turned her head towards the voice as she tugged, the change in angle freeing the plant and she fell over from the sudden give. Her back smacked solidly into the templar's chest plate, her arms above her head, still grasping the weed tightly in both hands. She expected to fall to the ground, but the man managed to catch her, albeit rather awkwardly. Ebrisa's face flushed as she felt his hands on her breasts and the templar seemed to realize where he was holding her at the same time.

“Sorry!” He jerked his hands away and held them up, letting her continue her descent to the ground. She let out a soft yelp as her rear connected with the flagstones. “Ah, sorry. Again.” As the mage tossed the weed to the pile and climbed back to her feet, the templar took the time to look around the yard more carefully. “Are you... gardening?”

“Yes, messere,” Ebrisa answered while moving her eyes over the trampled section of soil. Ser Thrask had told her about the crushed flowers that morning, unsure if anything could be done to save them, and she'd discussed the matter with Senior Enchanter Berenice. The talk had given her hope and Ebrisa entered the yard with thin wooden rods and twine with the intention of rigging together some supports. The damage had been far worse than she expected.

“ _Messere_ ,” the man scoffed. “I'm a knight of the Templar Order, not a prancing noble. Ser Carver, if you please.”

The mage started slightly, realizing that she was being rude, and turned around to face the templar, though her eyes remained low. “Of course, apologies. You were an unknown better and I did not mean to offend.”

Carver raised a brow and studied the nervous girl. No, girl was the wrong word, this was a woman – barely so, but more that then a child. Her figure was certainly not child-like. She wore a half apron over her clothes in a failed attempt to keep the robes clean, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Dirt caked her hands and stuck under her fingernails, matching patches on her face.

He looked past the mage to the stomped flowers, finding it odd that only one type had been so intensely crushed. “I take it you didn't do that.”

“No, Ser Carver,” she sighed quietly and knelt down beside the trampled plants. “This is not the first time something like this has happened, but never this... violently before.” The stems were completely snapped and beyond saving. Ebrisa rubbed a bruised petal gently between her finger and thumb, feeling the softness and lamenting silently that no part was salvageable at all. “I don't think I should plant white lilies next spring.”

The man crouched beside her, making out a few very distinct boot prints in the soil. “That's probably best. _Lily_ must have been the name of someone's pale ex-girlfriend and seeing the plant put them in a heartbroken fit of pique.”

She laughed at that, not loud and cackling like so many others, but rich and bubbly, and the sweet sound startled Carver. The mage turned to him, green eyes twinkling in amusement and her lips curved into a smile as they moved. She was talking now, saying something, but Carver was beyond listening at that moment. Her face had been hidden behind golden curls slipped from her braid and brushes of dirt, but now that she was smiling and meeting his gaze Carver could see how beautiful she was. That swipe of dirt on her nose now seemed rather adorable.

Her bright eyes raised a little and she laughed again before catching herself and covering her mouth, and just like that the spell was broken and Carver could hear her when she next spoke. “I'm so sorry, I think I got dirt in your hair.” Ebrisa reached up and brushed at the ebony strands, sweeping soil loose and to the ground. “I must have whacked you in the head with the weed in addition to demonstrating my lack of grace.”

He sighed a little, as though used to being the butt of other's jokes, and joined the effort to clear his hair. “Have a habit of striking templars with plant life?”

Ebrisa blushed slightly and pulled her hand away, the sparkle in her eyes fading and her smile disappeared. “Not intentionally,” she meekly admitted. “I'm afraid I have hit quite a few.” She retreated back behind her hair. “I smacked the Knight-Captain with a branch once...” she mumbled, horror and shame lacing the words and making it difficult for Carver to not snicker as he imagined the scene.

The scene also reminded him where and who he was and the templar shot up to his feet, clearing his throat in hopes of clearing his mind as well. This young woman was a mage and no matter how unassuming she appeared, she was dangerous. After all, Merrill was as innocent looking as they come and had still made a pact with a demon, using blood magic without a second thought. No, he had to be firm in the Order's rules and stay vigilant. He must follow the Knight-Commander's example and not be _fooled by a sweet face, to always see the demon behind it_. Still, it was difficult to look down at the mage and not notice how much she resembled the trampled flowers before her.  
~~~~~~~~~  
Orsino had tried to help with the nightmares over the years, explaining to Feynriel numerous times that there was no simple trick to banish the dark dreams, that the only way to keep the demons away was by force of will. There was power within the halfblood, a force he could not yet master in his studies, but the First Enchanter insisted the Circle's lessons would help him learn control. Feynriel was not overtly dangerous and Orsino promised the apprentice repeatedly that he would not be made Tranquil. Fear made mages do foolish things, and the First Enchanter would not see that happen to the frustrated apprentice.

The nightmares came more frequently, faces and promises filling his dreams almost every night and it was becoming harder and harder to banish the demons and force himself awake. Sometimes he couldn't even do that, but his roommate would rouse him – usually none too gently – and after just the briefest flicker of concern, the boy would grumble that Feynriel's screaming woke him up. Part of him resented still sharing a room when he was basically a man, but the other part was glad that apprentices did not sleep alone. Even if the young teen across the room fixed him with a near-constant glare, Feynriel was grateful to have Edan there.

~~~~~~~

Edan begrudgingly pulled himself out of bed, the eastern facing single window of his quarters making the space far too bright to ever sleep in. He stretched the stiffness from his back and sluggishly dressed for breakfast, despising the written exam looming in his immediate future. He toyed with the idea of not waking his roommate, as the blonde had been particularly restless the night before and settled only when Edan made to climb out of his own bed. He rolled his eyes and let out a very loud and very annoyed groan.

“Come on then, Eejit. Up and at 'em,” Edan sighed, yanking on the blonde's slightly pointed ear. The action usually had Feynriel snapping up with a yelp of pain, but he did not stir. Thinking that maybe he'd become used to it, Edan shook him fiercely, the blonde's head rolling from side to side with the motion, but he did not rouse. “Have it your way and miss breakfast.” He scooped up his supplies and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him in hopes that the sound would jostle the other boy awake.

When Edan came to the dining hall alone, he answered Ebrisa's questioning gaze with a grumbled explanation that Feynriel was still asleep. His irritation thickened his brogue and his vocabulary was laced with a few choice words, but the older girl could catch the concern he was stubbornly trying to mask. Ebrisa never understood exactly why Edan acted so aggressively towards his roommate, especially since they all seemed to get along so well and Vemara treated him like a big brother. It was a little strange that in her eight years of life, Vemara learned more about true elven culture in the Circle of Magi from a half-blood than from her elven mother.

Fearing the reprimand Feynriel would receive for being tardy or – Maker forbid – missing lessons altogether, Ebrisa made her way back to the Apprentice Hall after eating only half of her meal. She knocked on the door, calling out through the metal and straining for sounds of movement. She heard nothing and wondered if Feynriel had already gotten up and was scrambling to get some food in his belly before everything was gone. The young woman pulled open the door with a sharp squeak and peeked inside, cautiously calling out once again in case the male was dressing. He wasn't. Feynriel was still laying in bed, despite the shaft of bright sunlight directly on his face.

Leaving the door slightly ajar behind her, Ebrisa walked into the room and set her notebooks on the edge of the half-cluttered desk, knowing full well which side belonged to Edan. “Serrah Feynriel? You're going to be late if you don't get ready soon.” He made no indication of hearing her and the girl moved closer. There was a slight sheen of sweat on Feynriel's face, his expression a little pained, and Ebrisa was struck with the thought that he was ill. Cautiously, she placed a delicate hand on Feynriel's forehead to gauge his temperature. She sucked in a sharp breath at the contact and her vision flashed white, blinding her for several long minuets.  
~~~~~~~~  
It was moments like this that Carver really wished Aveline hadn't told the city guard to deny his application three years ago. He relished patrol duty, walking around in his imposing uniform and keeping an eye out for trouble. It didn't matter if it was in the city streets or the Gallows corridors, something about marching in issued armor made him feel important – feel part of something greater than himself. Even when he served in King Cailin's army, he was wearing mismatched greaves and bracers, the army cobbled together so quickly there was no way the quarter master could outfit them all properly. He enlisted to protect his home, protect his family, but Ostagar hadn't gone like anyone hoped and when Avris and the others yanked him from the darkspawn overrun field and smacked him until sense took hold he realized how joining the army was nothing like he expected. They lost the battle, Lothering burned, and sweet Bethany never even made it the Gwaren.

He joined the Templar Order when his sister left him behind, shooing him back home while she trekked off to the Deep Roads and became even more notorious. He couldn't stand around doing nothing while she was making a name for herself, so the fact that he was now _standing around doing nothing_ had him biting his tongue to hold back a groan at the irony. Ser Barclay insisted that supervising the apprentice mages' training was vitally important and very much _something_.

“Its not even a practical lesson,” Carver whispered harshly to the seasoned templar standing at his side by the door. “They're just going to be reading and talking.”

“And that makes this the perfect opportunity to study their behaviors,” Barclay whispered back with a hint of amusement. “How can you know if a mage is acting strangely if you do not know how they act normally?”

He had a point. Damn.

Barclay surveyed the room once again before locking eyes with the troubled senior enchanter. Alton approached them and let out a small sigh. “Feynriel and Trevelyan aren't here. It's unlike them, especially the girl.”

“I'll go find them,” Carver blurted out, itching to move around again.

The older templar chuckled and shook his head. “Alright, have at it.”

Carver moved briskly out of the room and through the Gallows, heading for the Apprentice Hall to check their rooms first. He'd have to check the roster, not yet having all of his charges memorized, and part of him hoped the mages wouldn't be so easy to find. He yearned for something exciting to keep him away from class duty as long as possible.

The Trevelyan and Petit room was empty, both beds made – though one far sloppier than the other – and no sign of anyone. As he neared Feynriel and Rayne's room, Carver quietened his steps and eyed the partially open door. Someone left in a hurry? Made a break for it? Perhaps he'd get to see a phylactery tracking up close.

He edged the door open, eyes falling on the sleeping occupant and ending all hopes for a bit of excitement. “Of course. The boy slept in.” Carver sighed in annoyance and entered the room, planning to grab the thin mattress and yank it out from under the mage as his elder sister did to him so often in their youth when he would groan for just five more minuets of rest. He stopped in his tracks when he rounded the foot of the bed, nearly stepping on a second sleeping figure sprawled out awkwardly on the floor as though she just dropped there. Carver recognized her as the flower girl and noted that she had to be Trevelyan. “This is... strange.”

If it had been the boy on the floor, Carver wouldn't have even bothered to bend down and simply used his foot to nudge the mage awake, but there was something innately wrong about kicking a girl, even if it wasn't really a kick. It likely had to do with all the trouble he got into fighting with his sisters growing up, even when they _clearly_ started the scuffle.

Carver knelt loudly beside the young woman and patted her cheek. “Hey, you alright?” There was no response, no muffled groan or twitch in her features, and he moved on to shaking her shoulder. He poured some water from the wash basin's pitcher on her face, then gave her a slap – one much too weak to do any actual good. “Just pretend its Dee,” he told himself and imagined his sister's smug face as he swatted again. The sound of the smack filled the air and he was thankful he'd had the foresight to remove his gauntlet before hitting that hard. There was perhaps a bit too much hostility for his sister inside him.

And yet, the mage remained still, save the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she continued to sleep. He stepped carefully over her and tried everything once again on Feynriel, having no reservations about slapping him. Still, there was no change from either and he hurried back to tell Barclay something was wrong, silently regretting the excitement he was hoping for.

~~~~~~~~~~  
When the light faded and her vision cleared, Ebrisa was more confused than anything else. She was standing in the Templar Hall clear on the opposite side of the Gallows from where she was a moment before. Everything looked a little... odd – hazy – and it was so very quiet. Her first thought was that she had somehow instantaneously moved across the fortress, stumbled on a new magic. Her second thought was that Feynriel wasn't well and needed help. Ignoring how she got there, Ebrisa moved through the corridor to the open, empty yard and towards the gate that would take her out of the area.

The stairs took her up and around, then lead her out into... the Templar Hall. She tried again, knowing she was taking the correct turns, and once more found herself where she started. Ebrisa moved to another exit, feeling panic overtake her confusion as she found herself returned to the eerie courtyard. She began pulling open doors and running through the hall, looking for anyone else and wondering where she really was. When she threw open the door for the small study hall, a strange sensation washed over her and she shut her eyes against the flash as she stepped inside the room.

There was a man there, leaning on a desk in the middle of the floor and speaking encouragingly to a young boy. “Not too much pressure, now. You don't want to use all the ink at once.” He chuckled softly, an Antivan accent lacing his careful words. “Good, just like that, Feynriel.”

Ebrisa started at the name, staring at the blonde child more closely and spotting the small points of his ears poking out from his short hair. The boy grinned and raised his head from the writing practice to look at the man, but his round eyes locked with Ebrisa's questioning ones. The man tensed, feeling a shift in the boy, and drew his gaze sharply to the intruder.

“What are you doing here?” The boy stood up from the desk and in that instant became the young man Ebrisa was familiar with. She opened her mouth to speak, to ask if he was alright or if he knew what was going on, but was cut off before she had the chance.

“Feynriel, my boy, she is here for you,” the man said with a tone Ebrisa neither knew nor liked.

“For me?” Feynriel turned to the man, confusion evident as he slowly tried to process, to adjust to the sudden changes.

The man chuckled and stepped behind him, speaking into his ear. “That's right. You desire this girl. You've wanted her for years, haven't you?” Feynriel nodded just a little, heat rising on his cheeks. The Antivan grinned widely. Too widely. “Well, there she is. You can have her. Feel her lips, taste her skin, inhale her scent.” There was a shift in the man's voice, like another person echoing the words with him.

Feynriel strode up to her, his steps more sure and confident than she'd ever seen, and Ebrisa tried to move back. The young man grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and pressed his lips to hers without a moments hesitation. Ebrisa was unable to pull away or even close her mouth from from sheer shock as her friend unabashedly stole her first kiss. It was hard and needy, awkwardly wet and not at all how a girl romanticizes kisses to be.

“Is she as soft as you imagined?” A sultry voice whispered at her side. “You imagined her a lot. Why not see if the rest lives up to your expectations?”

Feynriel pulled away from the one-sided kiss, allowing Ebrisa to see the figure who had replaced the Antivan man and her eyes widened in horror. A woman with lilac skin dotted in deeper hues around her shoulders and sides, slanted eyes dark with lust, and flickering purple flames dancing behind her curved horns.

Demon.

Words stuck in Ebrisa's throat as she tried to grasp what was happening, tried to reason why a demon would be loose in the empty Circle. A startled squeak found its way past her lips as Feynriel's hands slide from her shoulders and unfasten her robe's belt. It crashed to the tiles and before the echo of the clang had a chance to fade away, his arms were around her and his fingers working the lacing of her long corset. She couldn't understand why any of this was happening, why her friend was acting this way.

“You've wanted her just like this,” the demon cooed. “Fill your senses with her, then take her. Make her yours.”

No. Feynriel wouldn't do this. He was under some sort of demon spell – a trick – and didn't know what he was doing either. Finally regaining her voice and her senses, Ebrisa pushed at the surely enchanted mage in an effort to break them apart. “Feynriel, please!”

He blinked, looking at her as if only now seeing her, and took a step back. “E... Ebrisa?” He blushed furiously, remembering he had been trying to undress her.

“Yes?”

The two mages looked to the side, finding another Ebrisa standing there with flushed cheeks and timidly fiddling with the front buttons of her robe.

“Did... did you change your mind?” The impersonator meekly asked in Ebrisa's voice before lowering her eyes and chewing her bottom lip. “I... I didn't mean to force you. If you don't want me... it-its okay...”

Feynriel focused on the fake, taking hold of her hands and ignoring the real girl all together as she tried to regain his attention. “No! Ebrisa, you aren't forcing anything. The templars make it so hard for anyone to be together, but I have wanted this – wanted _you_ – for years.”

“Oh, Feynriel...” The false mage drew him into a kiss, moaning against his lips. The _real_ Ebrisa could only stare, horrified by the noises her doppelganger was making in her voice. A force tightened around her, like dozens of hands gripping her body, and with a sharp look from the fake's dark eyes, Ebrisa was yanked out of the room and slammed against the walkway's railing. She grimaced against the pain and once again tried to call out to her friend, but not before the door slammed in her face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't too much of a surprise if you noticed the tags, but here we see my only other alteration to this AU - Carver survives and joins the templars. In my original story, Bethany lives (as Hawke is a warrior class and ogres like a well-balanced family, I suppose) and joins the Grey Wardens. I actually really like Carver and wish I didn't have to play a mage just to keep him around in game, so I figured I might as well take full advantage of this AU and explore the sibling dynamic. Plus, now we have another character in the Gallows that can tie back to the game plot.  
> ...  
> And, like, geometric affection conflicts. Misunderstandings. Ya know, fluff bait like that.


	6. Feynriel

It quickly became clear that the apprentices could not be roused by physical means. Feynriel was getting progressively worse, his skin gaining an ashen color and his breathing becoming more labored as time wore on. The girl, however, merely slept. Orsino attempted to enter Feynriel's dream with the aid of several senior enchanters and Meredith's blessing, but was unable to find him in the Fade. He'd kept a scattered correspondence with Keeper Marethari regarding the boy's development and feared what sort of Somniari magic could be taking place.

The fact that it had already roped in a second victim made the First Enchanter apprehensive and after the girl was moved to the second bed in the room, he barred entrance to anyone else. Meredith agreed, being more concerned by the incident than Orsino expected, and pressed him to continue looking into the matter. She posted templars at the door, full knighthood, and ordered them to send for her at any sign of change.

Thrask wrote to Arianni, doing his best to explain the situation without making it sound too dire. When the elven woman arrived to check on her son herself, the refusal of admittance did nothing to calm her nerves. “Please, I just want to see him,” she sobbed, not caring if she was making a scene in the entry courtyard. “He's my son! You can't expect me to sit around and wait for news!” No, she had to do something and if the Circle couldn't help her son, she would have to seek aid elsewhere.

~~~~~~~~~  
She had tried everything, but Ebrisa couldn't get the door open again. She had pounded until her hands went numb, dug her nails into the door jam, and screamed for her friend until her voice went hoarse. She couldn't get to him and couldn't leave to get help. The sight of the door made her feel useless and like a failure, unable to free her friend from the demon's hold. The things it made him do...

After trying everything she could think of, Ebrisa curled up on a bed in a defeated ball and waited for something to change. She lay on one of the bunks in the recruit barracks and once again tried to figure out how she had gotten to the fake Templar Hall when the door burst open and a dark-haired woman rushed in with a roar and a greatsword at the ready. Ebrisa shot up with a startled scream, the woman letting out one of her own. Three other people hurried in after her, weapons drawn as they looked around. One of them looked very familiar.

“Guardsman?” Ebrisa's hands remained on her heart, but the beating was slowing down.

The red-haired warrior eyed her strangely and lowered her templar shield. “Not for some time...”

“I'm confused,” a tattooed elf said as she leaned on her staff and tilted her head. “I thought the Circle wasn't able to send anyone in to help.”

“She doesn't look like she's helping,” a dwarf chimed in, adjusting his grip on the crossbow in his hands to a less threatening one. “Or maybe this isn't a mage.”

“Demon?” The first woman turned to the elf for confirmation.

“Please, messere, I am no demon.” Ebrisa climbed off the bed and held out her hands in peace.

“Sounds suspiciously like something a demon would say,” the woman said with a wry grin.

“Piggy-back at the docks,” Aveline muttered, earning strange looks from her companions. “You were trying to get to the Gallows.”

“Yes! You brought me to the apothecary in the undercity,” Ebrisa exclaimed, glad to see the woman remembered her.

“You know an apothecary in Darktown?” The elf frowned a little. “Is he Anders' competition? I hope its a friendly competition.”

“I think she _does_ mean Anders, Merrill,” the first woman whispered harshly out of the side of her mouth in a very poor attempt to mask her words.

“Wait, so this is the mage who carried two children across the mountains, away from crazed blood magic with nothing but the clothes on her back and determination?” The dwarf chuckled and studied the blonde more closely. “Not quite what I pictured, but I guess it will do.”

“I only carried Vemara...” Ebrisa mumbled, feeling her face flush from embarrassment.

“Oh, she's adorable,” Merrill cooed, leaning further on her staff. “Like Deshyr asking for a good head pat. Do you want a pat?”

“Yeah, Hawke, can we keep her?” The dwarf smirked as the mage blushed further.

“I've already got too many of you guys as it is, Varric,” Hawke shot him an amused look. “And I was rather hoping for a demon.”

Ebrisa gasped suddenly, forgetting in her moment of confusion by the new arrivals what was going on. “A demon has Feynriel! Please, messeres, you must help him!”

“That's why his mama sent us.” Hawke grinned and hefted her blade to her shoulder. “Lead the way, Piggy-back.”

Ebrisa nodded and pushed through the group, taking them back to the main yard as Varric groaned. “Yikes, Hawke, you are bad at that. Leave the nicknames to me.”

They stopped at the door to the study hall and Ebrisa gave it another try, frustrated that it still would not yield to her. “I got in once, but then the demon changed and Feynriel... um...” Her face reddened again. “I-I just can't go in there.”

“What, is it locked? I brought my trusty dwarf for things like that.” Hawke took hold of the handle and pulled it open effortlessly. “No dwarf required, it would seem.” She stepped into the room as Varric began to feign hurt, then felt a strange prickling over her skin and her vision flashed for a moment.

Hawke looked at her hands, startled to find them larger and covered in templar gauntlets. Upon closer inspection, the armor covered her entire body, which wasn't her body anymore. Her hands slipped over her face, feeling out the features, and up into the still short – though differently styled – hair. “This is strange...” The voice that came out was not her own, but so very _very_ familiar. “Why do I feel all whiny and self-important?” She gasped dramatically, clutching her hands into fists. “Andraste's tits, I'm Carver!” She turned behind her to confirm with the others, but was startled to see no one there.

A moan cut through the air and she turned to it, choking on her breath at the person who made the sound. Feynriel was leaning against one of the support pillars, his head tilted back as the half naked girl in his arms sucked on his neck, easing a whimper from the back of his throat.

“Whoa,” Hawke mumbled, blinking at the scene. “The Circle's a lot more fun than I thought.” The girl pulled away just a little, revealing her face to be the same as the blushing blonde they'd bumped into. “Riiiiiiight, demon. That makes more sense,” Hawke sighed, a little disappointed that the dreamer didn't have his hand on the ass he thought he did. “What's the matter, broom closet all full? How does the library look? Any blind spots you could take advantage of?” Hawke called out loudly.

The mages broke apart, the girl glaring with sharp eyes as Feynriel gasped for breath. “Se-ser Carver!”

That means she really _was_ Carver. Andraste's Ass...

“Bit of advice?” Hawke continued in her brother's voice. “Maybe don't snog in the middle of the Templar Hall.”

“We, um, we weren't...” Feynriel straightened his clothes and blushed heavily.

Hawke hummed curiously at the shirt and breeches. “Well I guess I wouldn't dream myself wearing a dress either. Good call on the pants.”

“What?”

“And not for nothing, kid, but I'm not sure how much of a sex kitten this wallflower of yours really is. Unless she actually has already jumped you?” Hawke stilled and cursed herself as she watched the confusion grow on the boy's face. “In any case, you're going to need a stiff drink when you wake to wash the taste of demon from your mouth.

“Demon?” Feynriel turned to Ebrisa, a fiery hatred contorting her face as she glared at Hawke. Her form flickered just barely, just enough for him to catch the outline of horns and then it all came crashing down. Ebrisa – the real Ebrisa – was polite and kindhearted, prettiest when she smiled or laughed, and she was nothing more than his friend. He had wanted more from her, but the boy knew deep down that friendship was all she could offer him. Maybe all she knew to offer anyone.

He took a step back, then another, angry at the creature for twisting the image of the young woman and angrier at himself for believing it. “This isn't real. You're not her. Leave me alone!” Feynriel turned from the shadow of his friend and ran off blindly, disappearing through a wall.

The demon was powerless to stop him and watched the dreamer leave, breaking the hold she had on his mind. She turned to Hawke, mage robes unbuttoned and disheveled and with a snap of her shoulders, she shrugged them to the floor to make her stalk to the warrior unencumbered. Her steps stopped right in front of the false templar, dark eyes seeping wisps of violet flames.

“Oh dear,” Merrill's voice rang out from behind and Hawke craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the rest of the group standing by the door. “Do you think you could ask you to cover up?” The elf turned to the red faced Ebrisa. “She's just in your small clothes.”

“Pretty sure the kid's aware of that,” Varric held back a chuckle for the sake of the mortified mage. They had seen everything unfold before them, but for whatever reason remained invisible and mute to the three others. He felt bad for his initial hoot at the passionate necking, realizing too late that a demon was imitating the young woman standing beside him.

“You turned him against me,” the demon said in a deceptively calm voice, her own silky tone passing her lips as her guise faded away.

“Did I?” Hawke paused a little, relieved to hear her voice instead of her brother's and did a quick check to ensure she was herself again. She locked eyes with the demon and grinned. “Oops.”

“Take away my pets, and I'll take away yours,” the horned creature sighed, moving back to study the group, searching their hearts for desires to exploit. “How loyal _are_ these friends you drag into the Fade?”

“Well they haven't killed me yet, so...” Hawke trailed off with a shrug.

The demon locked eyes with her target and smirked. “What would your noble knight do to reclaim what she's lost?” She let out a soft gasp and arched her back, body coating in light to once again shift form. A templar stood before them, skin pale and snaking tendrils of darkened veins running against his flesh. When it spoke to Aveline, the voice was deep. “You spent your whole life trying to be the chevalier your father wanted. The one thing you chose for yourself, and the darkspawn took him.”

“Wesley?” Aveline whispered the name, pain and hope mixing together as the shadow of her husband approached.

“Come back to me, love,” the demon pleaded. “Everything went wrong when we met this family of apostates.”

“I'll have you know, you should have used the singular form,” Hawke snorted. “Mind reading getting a little sluggish?”

The demon ignored her, pressing Aveline further. “Kill her, and everything we lost will be restored.”

Hawke scoffed at the order. “Oh please, we _just_ saw you change before our pathetic mortal eyes. Do you really think Aveline will fall for this?”

“It is not the form she wants,” the demon explained. “It is redemption.”

Aveline's body tensed, staring into the dark, sunken eyes of her dead husband. “I failed you, Wesley. I failed myself.” She broke her gaze by closing her eyes, taking a deep breath to keep her emotions under control. “If that moment could be changed...”

That was all it took and the demon hissed in satisfaction as she jumped back and returned to her own form. Turning her attention to the rest of the group, she adorned a triumphant smirk. “You want me?” Aveline stepped between her companions and the demon. “Come through her!”

“Oh, for tits sake!” Hawke whined, pulling out her greatsword just as lesser demons and shades rose up through the floor. She kept the enemy's attention on her heavily armored self while Varric and Merrill picked them off from behind. It was difficult to manage on her own, not only being down a fighter but facing that fighter, and Hawke struggled to stick to their normal strategy.

There was a soft hum in her ear, the curious sound distracting her just a bit and the warrior missed catching the incoming strike at her flank. The clawed hand glanced off her, repelled centimeters from her armor, and Hawke took advantage of the moment of confusion that followed to strike the shade down. A heat rushed up her spine and her swings were faster, cutting through the lackeys until only Aveline and the main demon were left.

The guard-captain was her friend, a nagging friend – more like a bossy sister, really – and Hawke was finding it difficult to swing at her. The blasted redhead kept jumping in the way, making Hawke pull back and lessen the weight of her strikes intended for the demon. Aveline, however, held no reservation about fighting and after a particularly solid hit of her shield, she sent Hawke rolling to the floor.

“Woman-shaped battering ram...” Hawke coughed and climbed back to her feet, favoring her left shoulder. “Isabella certainly got that one right.”

A fireball slammed into Aveline's chest, staggering her back long enough for Hawke to gape at the source. “Don't look at me like that, I didn't _really_ hit her,” Merrill quickly defended. “This is the Beyond – the Fade – her body is safe and sound with Arianni and the keeper. Well, as safe as the alienage is on any given Thursday.”

That was right. This wasn't real. Hawke smirked and readied to lash out for all the times Aveline scolded her like a child, treating her like she didn't know what she was doing. “It would be wrong to say I'll enjoy this a little, I suppose?” She hefted her blade and winced as the weight strained her left side, refraining from dropping the sword and followed through with her swing. Aveline took the hit hard, grunting as it cut through a weak point in her armor before bolts found purchase in the joints and a streak of lighting circulated through the metal plate. She fell to the floor with a groan, then vanished.

Hawke turned her head back just a bit to nod at her companions, glad that they would be sharing the burden of killing/not killing Aveline. Her brow raised just a bit at the blonde tag-along, the mage closing her eyes in concentration as a soft light swirled at her feet. Ebrisa raised her hands as if lifting something far heavier than the green aura drifting around her fingers and a familiar warmth rushed through the warriors body, the pain in her shoulder gone. The demon, now alone, didn't last much longer.

The dark-haired woman holstered her weapon and moved back to the group, fixing her eyes on the blonde. “Now that the immediate crazy is over, why don't you tell us how you got here? Ancient Dalish rituals a thing in the Circle now?”

“No, that's...” Ebrisa furrowed her brow, pursing her lips in confusion. “I don't really know what happened. Serrah Feynriel looked unwell and I tried to check for fever, then... a flash... and I was here.” Her voice grew quiet, an edge of fear creeping into her words. “That feels like so long ago. I don't imagine he's gotten any better...”

“You're not... wrong,” Hawke muttered, recalling Arianni's terrified pleas.

Somehow, it seemed unwise to repeat them out loud.

“Well, she's here,” Varric chimed in, “Maybe put off the _hows_ until we get out. Dwarves aren't meant for the Fade.”

“Oh, she's a healer and a blonde – it'll be just like having Anders with us!” Merrill giggled lightly.

“Hopefully not _just_ like,” Hawke sighed. One walking spirit inn was enough for her, no matter how much they liked cats. “Marethari said we would leave when Feynriel woke up, so he must still be in here somewhere. Better get to checking the Gallows, I guess.”

“We can't go beyond the Templar Hall,” Ebrisa piped up. “And after I was locked out of this room, another door refused to open for me.” She looked up at Hawke, eyes pleading. “But maybe you can do it? Feynriel has to be in there.”

The warrior held up her hands. “Mama elf already asked me to help her boy, so you can dial that back, Doe-y.”

“E-excuse me?”

“ _Doughy_ , Hawke?” Varric asked dryly.

Merrill wrapped a protective arm around the other mage, frowning at the taller woman. “That's not very nice or very true, Hawke. We just saw her naked and she didn't look one bit pudgy. Well she wasn't really naked. Or really...her... Breast band seemed a bit tight, though. Do you mean she has doughy breasts?”

Hawke tried to swallow her laughter, resulting in a strangled snort as the blush on the blonde's cheeks spread across her face and Merrill remained oblivious to the embarrassment she was causing. “No, I meant Doe-y, like... a female deer? Cause her eyes were all big and doe-like?”

The dwarf shook his head and patted her shoulder. “Sorry, Hawke. You just aren't cut out for making nicknames.”

“Well we got to call her _something_!”

“You _could_ try her name,” Varric chuckled at the crestfallen expression on his friends face before turning to the blonde. “We sort of skipped the introductions part, but this is Hawke and that's Merrill. _I_ am Varric Tethras, dwarven storyteller extraordinaire, and _she_ ,” he lifted his crossbow to his shoulder, “is Bianca.”

“O-of course!” The Circle mage dipped into a small curtsey, mentally chastising herself for ignoring her manners. Mother would be so disappointed. “Ebrisa Trevelyan. Well met, Messere Hawke, Messere Merrill, Messere Varric.” She paused and looked to the lovingly crafted crossbow, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Madame Bianca.”

Oh, Varric liked her. He'd have to figure out that nickname.

“I've never been a _messere_ before,” Merrill giggled. “I feel all tingly.”

“First things first,” Hawke said with a grin. “Show us that door, Trevelyan.”

Ebrisa lead them back to the courtyard, doing her best to support the group as a small band of demons attacked them. She didn't trust herself with harmful magic, especially without a focus, especially in the Fade. Luckily, the others didn't need much assistance and they soon crossed the yard and opened the once locked door. It was a corridor Ebrisa knew well and they passed Meredith's and Orsino's respective offices without incident, stopping at the door to the enclosed yard she tended. But there was no sign of cultivated plants or blooming flowers, the flagstones cracked and infested with weeds, a condition the space had not been in for years.

Elves filled the yard, all eagerly facing their keeper and Feynriel. Hawke stepped in changing into the First Enchanter, and the others were once again invisible to the scene as it played out. The voices were muffled, and Ebrisa had trouble trying to make any of it out but could plainly see from Hawke's body language that the fighter wasn't even _trying_ to act like Orsino. A keyword, a comment, something stuck and Feynriel once again rushed off as the demon ended the charade in frustration from loosing its prize.

The hulking creature towered over all of them, growling in the back of its thick throat. “With my power joined to his, Feynriel would have changed the world!”

Hawke, once again _Hawke_ , snorted at the idea. “The world's a little ambitious, don't you think? How about starting small and working your way up.”

“Those who are free to choose always want power. You think your friends are different?”

“Cripes, this again?” Hawke glanced back at the others, wondering who would be swayed. After all, Aveline was her _rock_ and look what happened there.

“You think this elf, with her innocent face, would turn down a demon's offer?” The creature chuckled. “She didn't before.”

Ebrisa stared at the other mage, surprised by the remark and the lack of denial both. Merrill had made pact with a demon? The others knew and still... but there was no trace of malice in her words or wickedness in her casting. How was that possible?

Merrill stepped forward as the creature lured her in with promises of restoring elvenkind, of power enough to become the Scion of the Dalish. She turned to Hawke and the fighter knew what she was going to say before the words even left her mouth. “I.. cannot put you ahead of the fate of my people.”

“Yeah, well, it's not like I can compete with that offer,” Hawke muttered as she withdrew her blade and waited for their friend to turn on them. This time around, the warrior did not hesitate and took down her ally as quickly as possible. Merrill may be a little wisp of a thing, but if the elf had a chance to let off a streak of lightning or summon that bulky rock armor, Hawke knew she would be trouble. With the element of surprise on her side and a supportive spell or two from the blonde mage, Hawke soon had Merrill down and out and turned her attention to the demons Varric was more or less keeping in place with a constant stream of bolts from his lovely assistant.

They were down two people now and Ebrisa still did not trust herself to risk unleashing anything that could potentially harm them. Even if Hawke and Varric weren't there, moving targets were a lot more difficult to hit than Tevinter statues or a fellow apprentice focusing all their concentration on maintaining a magical shield over themselves. What she _could_ do was support them, and Ebrisa cast barriers and wove spells to enhance their speed and aptitude for battle. When the fight was over, she dropped to her knees in exhaustion.

“You okay there, Kiddo?” Varric knelt down by her side as Hawke made a final sweep of the area for any stragglers.

“It was a bit too much, too quickly,” Ebrisa panted out. “We always take our time between castings in lessons to ensure we have proper control. The Circle doesn't train apprentices for combat like this.”

“Can't imagine why that would be,” Hawke added with a smirk as she joined them by the door. “Teach mages to fight back before running them through the Harrowing so they can pass the test easier? That's just silly.”

Ebrisa frowned just a little and climbed to her feet. “Would you hand someone a new weapon and set them loose on the battlefield before knowing if they would fight for your side when your back is turned?”

Hawke blinked in surprise. “You don't think they're setting mages up to fail?”

“The Harrowing has worked for centuries, messere. If the Chantry didn't want mages to use their Maker-given abilities to serve mankind, then we would all be made Tranquil as soon as our magic manifested. I doubt the Circle would spend so much time and effort training us in _hopes_ that we become abominations during the Harrowing.”

“She's gotcha there, Hawke,” Varric snickered. “How about we put a pin in this philosophical discussion until we're back in the real world?”

“Right, Arianni must have paced a hole in the floor by now.” The warrior moved passed the others and down the corridor. Feynriel had to still be in there somewhere, or they would have woken up by now. Well, assuming that Marethari had performed that ritual correctly. If they were stuck in someone else's dream forever, she would have some very choice words to haunt the keeper with.

They returned to the center of the hall, bracing for demons, but saw only Feynriel frantically pacing on the lower level. He was mumbling to himself, running trembling fingers over his face and shaking his head. The strain of the visitors – both good and ill intentioned – was taking its toll on his mind.

“Serrah Feynriel!” Ebrisa rushed down the steps and threw her arms around his neck, feeling him flinch at the contact. “You're alright! I was so worried another demon had-”

She didn't get a chance to finish, the boy ripping out of her embrace and shoving her to the ground. “Back, creature,” Feynriel shouted. “I won't be fooled by you again!” Ebrisa stared up at him, watching the emotions contorting his face until he forced himself to move again. “I can't spend another moment in this place. The screaming! Everywhere, all I hear are the nightmares of people dying, fleeing, gnawing their own arms off to escape...”

“Hey, now, take it easy,” Hawke said in as calming a voice as she could, slowly approaching the dreamer. “We're here to help.”

He looked at her sceptically. “Serrah Hawke?” It didn't make any sense for a demon to take her shape.

“In the flesh,” she smirked. “Well, as fleshy as one can be...” Hawke waved her hands around vaguely, “here.”

“You must get me out of here,” Feynriel took a desperate step towards her. “This is a world of monsters. And they all want me! Please, help me escape. Help me die!”

Ebrisa gasped at his plea, covering her mouth to muffle the sound and tried her best to calm down. This was the Fade and a death here would not mean his body would perish, but what did it mean? Was it the only way to wake him up? Hawke had killed two of her companions already, one of them a mage, and she did not seem overly concerned about them. Perhaps everything would be alright.

Hawke and Varric shared a look, something Ebrisa couldn't quite place, before the fighter nodded and pulled out her sword. “Close your eyes, Feynriel. This will all be over soon.”

The half-blood let out a soft sigh of relief, with another hard to decipher tone mixed in. “Thank you.” He dropped to his knees, eyes level with Ebrisa's, and regret slipped across his face. “I'm sorry, Ebrisa. I didn't...”

“It's alright, I know.” She took hold of his hands and smiled gently. “The demon twisted your thoughts, warped your feelings. You weren't in control.”

“No, I...” He let out a tired, bitter laugh. “That's the whole problem, isn't it? I could never be in control of this...” Feynriel lowered his head and squeezed his friend's hands. “Serrah Hawke, do it. Put the knife in my heart.” After all, there was one there already.

Hawke pulled back, then thrust her blade into the boy.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ebrisa shot up in the bed, gasping for breath as she darted her eyes around. It took a few moments for her mind to recover from the sudden ejection from the Fade, but when the fog had lifted and she recognized where she was, only one thought ran through her head.

_What happened to Feynriel?_

She didn't have to go far, finding him sitting up in his bed on the other side of the room, and hurried to his side. “Serrah Feynriel! Blessed Andraste be praised, you're alright!” With all that had happened in the Fade, with the violent way they had left it, Ebrisa was glad to see her friend alive and well.

“Yes. I am free at last.” His tone was off, almost like he was asleep or disinterested. “It is quiet now.” He turned to the other mage, round eyes vacant and expression neutral.

Feynriel wasn't alright.

He would never be alright again.

“You...” Ebrisa dropped to his bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress and lightly running her trembling fingers down his still sweaty face. “Feynriel...” her voice cracked before she could say any more, knowing they had rescued him far too late.

“Why do you look at me like that?”

He wasn't acting this way because he was sick. Ebrisa could no longer feel the thrum of magic inside him, no spark of energy... spark of anything. “You're Tranquil...”

Feynriel kept his eyes locked with hers, gaze never wavering. “I was afraid of that for so long. I can't even remember why.” Ebrisa lowered her head, bringing a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from sobbing. “To live, to sleep without dreaming, to never hear a demon's whisper – it is a blessing as great as standing at the Maker's side.”

It felt so wrong to hear someone speak of the Maker with no emotion in their voice, so wrong for her friend to say anything in such a monotone, and Ebrisa ran for the door. She startled the templars standing guard on the other side, the surprise catching all words in her throat and all she could do was look at them with wide, pleading eyes.

Ser Thrask took hold of her shoulder, trying to coax an explanation from the mage as Titus ran off to get the knight-commander. “Be still, child. What has happened?”

Ebrisa shook her head. “Feynriel. He, I don't know how, but... he's...”

The man raised his eyes, looking past the girl at the figure now standing beside the empty bed. Thrask felt his chest tighten as he took in Feynriel's posture and expression, mannerisms he had hoped the boy would never have to adopt. A tired sigh left him and his shoulders hunched just a bit. “I can see what he is.” Arianni would need to be told.

 


	7. Confession

A month after Feynriel's final nightmare and the cause of his Tranquility was still largely unknown. Through his letters with Marethari, Orsino learned the keeper sent others into the boy's dream to free him and that they had killed him in there. Orsino was hesitant to tell Meredith, as it would raise questions about why he was consulting with the Dalish, which would bring to light Feynriel's somniari power. The threat of that power was now gone, but if the knight-commander learned Orsino kept that secret for three years, she would grow too suspicious of him and wonder what else he could be hiding. No, the First Enchanter had to remain quiet, lest he seed paranoia amongst the templars.

With no explanation for the coma they'd fallen into, Feynriel and Ebrisa remained in quarantine for a few more days to ensure there was no lingering ill effects. Once they were released, Feynriel was sent to work with Teryn maintaining records and keeping the library in order, and Ebrisa was permitted to return to lessons. Fighting beside Hawke in the Fade boosted her casting confidence and the mage was soon sent to the advanced class, her knowledge now matching her skill. She was glad for the change in peers so she could pretend they didn't speak to her because she was new. She threw herself into the new studies so she could focus on her books and forget how small her ring of friends had become.

Vemara remained her roommate, the girl asking for her lullaby more nights than normal and Ebrisa had difficulty telling who the tune was meant to soothe more. Edan was given a new roommate, Jarrett, once Feynriel was moved to another hall and he tried to get the Kirkwaller to eat with them, but he flatly refused. There were looks and whispers directed Ebrisa's way, rumors circulating the fortress that painted her in none too friendly a light. She had been in the same non-responsive state as Feynriel, yet the halfbreed had woken up Tranquil where as she had not. If she had no explanation, then how innocent could she really be?

Their frightened words wormed their way into her heart, nurturing the doubt and guilt already there until it became too much and Ebrisa couldn't last a single day longer with the weight of it all. Her tending of the yards more or less gave the mage free reign of the Templar Hall and, while she had never before abused that, Ebrisa walked alone through the space right up to the Knight-Commander's office. She hesitated just a moment, hand hovering over the door, as she wondered if this might be taking advantage of Meredith's trust in her.

The door opened and she jumped, standing face-to-face with the knight-captain, fist still raised in the air. When she refused to move or say anything, Cullen turned back to the room. “Knight-Commander? You appear to have company.” He stepped out of the way, allowing Meredith a clear view.

“Trevelyan?” The older woman straightened behind her desk and beckoned the mage inside. “Did you require some more supplies? I've already informed the quartermaster to heed your requests.”

“Ah, no, Knight-Commander.” Ebrisa finally dropped her hand and took a hesitant step into the room. “I was wondering – hoping – that...” She chewed on her bottom lip, hesitating once again. “I know August is still a ways off, but... I humbly request leave to visit the Chantry. To-today, if possible?”

Meredith could not deny the shift she'd seen in the mage over the last month, how she no longer hummed while gardening and how quiet the corridors grew when she moved through them. The chapel they had in the Gallows was obviously insufficient for her current needs. “So long as you understand this is not something I grant lightly.” A timid smile tugged at the mage's lips and she nodded. “The Maker seems to have blessed you with good timing. The Knight-Captain was just on his way there on some business of his own.” Meredith directed her eyes to Cullen, the already excused man having been unable to leave without moving the mage out of the way. “You will accompany him until that business is finished.”

“Now?” Ebrisa looked between the two of them. “Lessons will be resuming soon.”

“It is either go now, or not at all,” Meredith snapped. She paused at the girl's flinch and softened her voice. “Regrettably, there is much work for me here today and I am short of competent men I can entrust you to. Cullen is my second, and if I can trust him with my life, I can trust him with yours.”

The Fereldan studied his commander curiously, seeing a side to her he very rarely did. It was not the first time her demeanor around this particular mage had made him wonder if there was more going on than there appeared to be. Still, from what he had read in reports and witnessed first hand, Trevelyan was well behaved and loyal to the Circle. She should prove no burden for his task.

“I will watch her, Knight-Commander.”

Meredith gave him a curt nod before directing her attention back to the mage. “You will be fine missing a lecture or two.”

“Yes, thank you.” The timid smile returned, a bit brighter this time. “Truly.”

The commander picked up a report and turned away, pretending to read the paperwork in her hands. “Make it count, Trevelyan.”

Ebrisa nodded and looked to Cullen. “Lead the way, Knight-Captain. Or... do I lead? I'll admit, I've not had a single figure escort before. Which is best?”

“The _best_ is for us to be out of the knight-commander's office,” he replied while inclining his head towards the corridor.

“Ah, yes, of course!” Ebrisa squeaked, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “That is – of course.” Meredith shuffled her papers loudly in an attempt to mask her chuckle as they finally got underway.

They were not the only ones on the ferry, and Cullen spent most of the crossing discussing the patrol's route through the Docks and Lowtown, reminding them to keep their wits about them. “Just because its still daylight doesn't mean there aren't dark corners. Do try to stay focused this time, Ser Paxly.”

“It was only a little knock on the head, Knight-Captain,” the sandy haired man protested.

Cullen leveled him with an unimpressed brow raise. “Well, perhaps the next time you get jumped by mage-sympathizers they'll give you a shave and spare us all the sight of that ridiculous mustache of yours.”

Paxly's hand flew up to his mouth protectively as the rest of his patrol laughed. “Ser Alrik says facial hair is a sign of character.”

“Ser Alrik is not the best suited to be giving advice on hair, templar.” Cullen let out a mild snort. “Unless you plan on getting your head shaved as well?”

“Yeah, how's about it, Paxly?” The raven-haired female in the group elbowed her peer with a wry grin.

“Agatha,” the blushing man grumbled, finally dropping his hand. “The Knight-Captain doesn't need your assistance.”

“No, but you will.” Cullen looked the group over carefully as the vessel came in to dock. “All of you watch out for each other. I'll not have a repeat of Ser Halle's Darktown patrol last month, understood?”

The group saluted and answered in unison, earning a nod and faint smirk from Cullen before they departed. He watched them begin their patrol, glad to see their posture firm and heads on a swivel. A loud creak behind him reminded the templar that there was another on board and he turned to the fidgeting mage, mentally chastising himself for forgetting about her. She was just so quiet...

“Come on then,” Cullen ordered, all trace of the amused officer gone. “It's a long ways to Hightown.” He had a task to perform, after all.

Ebrisa nodded and lowered her head, quickly falling into line behind him. As they progressed into the city, the mage was having trouble keeping pace and the templar pulled further and further ahead. She was able to keep him in sight, but struggled to climb the steps without tripping and by the time she entered Lowtown, he was gone. Panic threatened to overtake her, having not been to the city nearly enough to navigate it on her own, but she knew that so long as she headed up, she would be moving in the right direction.

Deciding left was as good a choice as right, Ebrisa turned at the fork and made her way through the crowd, looking for more stairs and the glint of templar plate. She felt very awkward and out of place in her layers of embellished robes, trying to not make eye contact with the locals as she passed. This was her first time really seeing Kirkwall. As Starkhaven's main trading partner and one of the most active ports in all the Free Marches, the city-state was wealthy, yet that did not reflect in the conditions of either the streets and buildings in Lowtown or the people living there. While the inequality of merchants living in estates and their workers living in slums struck her, Ebrisa realized that blame could not be placed on Kirkwall alone. Just because she had only seen the best places of other city-states did not mean they lacked rundown areas as well.

“Miss!” A dirty child ran up to her, no older than Vemara, and tugged on her sleeve desperately. “Please, miss, my little brother!”

Ebrisa bent down to become eye level with the boy. “Take a breath. What's the matter with your brother?”

The child looked over his shoulder to a turn in the street. “He needs help. I don't know what's wrong – just – please, miss!”

She placed her hand over his, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You need to be brave for him, alright? If he sees you scared, he'll only get more scared himself.” Ebrisa gave the child a soft, encouraging smile. “Take me to him. I'll do what I can.”

“Okay...” the boy said uneasily, hesitating a little before leading the mage through the crowd to a side street. He took her further from the noise of the bazaar into the eerie calm of an all but abandoned district. Spare links for the harbor chains lay in heaps against a rusted fence with large pulleys and cranks taking up more of the space. The child tore away from the mage and darted under a broken door, slipping into the shadows of a building without a word.

“Wait!” Ebrisa hurried to the jammed door, knowing the hole the child used was too small for herself. A rough hand clapped over her mouth and pulled her backwards, slamming her against a very solid chest.

“Well now, let's have a proper look at what the brat brought us today,” a male voice said from the side. The figure holding Ebrisa turned to the voice, swinging the light mage around with him. A lightly tanned man, well dressed and groomed, held his chin in his hand as he scrutinized the woman. “Doesn't look like much of a laborer, but is pretty enough to fetch a nice price.” He sighed disinterestedly and waved his hand. “Put her with the others.”

“Sure thing, Boss.” The hulk of a man holding Ebrisa replied in a gravely voice, dragging the mage towards a sewer access hatch as she struggled in his grip. She managed to wiggle enough to catch one of her capture's calloused fingers between her teeth and bit down as hard as she could. He yelped and threw her to the ground. “Little bitch!” The man looked back to his leader to ask permission to strike the mage, but stiffened at the armored figure approaching them.

“Admar?” The tanned man raised a brow. “What are you-” The rest of his words came out in a groan as he was knocked out from a swift pommel strike, dropping to the pavement like a sack of potatoes.

“When I said to keep your wits about you, I meant _you_ as much as the men, Trevelyan.” Cullen slid his shield into place as he stepped over the first man, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the brute standing over the mage. “I suggest you move to a safe distance.”

Ebrisa tried to scramble away as quickly as she could, but the burly man caught her by the belt and yanked her back. “Stay where you are, templar!” The man shouted, withdrawing an axe with his free hand. Cullen stilled, studying the man and glancing over at the captive. “If you know this one, then she's a mageling, right? That means her price just doubled and I ain't about to let that much coin just walk away.”

“Funny,” Cullen shot back. “I wasn't going to let you walk away either.” He rushed the man, the slaver swinging at his hostage. “Down!”

Ebrisa finished unlatching her belt and dropped to the ground just in time for Cullen to intercept the strike. He hooked the axe head with his sword's guard and swung it in a wide arc, wrenching it from the man's hand. The templar continued his momentum and turned into the swing, bringing his shield around to smash it solidly into the slaver's face, sending teeth and the man both flying to the dirty ground.

Cullen took a few deep breaths as he looked around. “See if you can find something to bind them with.”

“What?” Ebrisa slowly climbed to her feet, shaken from the whole thing.

“Rope, chains – a bleeding bed sheet will do – just something to keep these idiots in place until the guard arrive,” Cullen snapped, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“Ye-yes!” The mage squeaked and began searching as Cullen dragged the smaller man over to his partner. She looked in barrels and discarded crates, hoping for something useful, but finding the area had been picked over long ago. There was a quiet sound of someone clearing their throat and she turned to find the child from before sheepishly holding out a bundle of weathered rope from a crack in the building. Ebrisa took it and opened her mouth, but the boy quickly put his finger to his lips and shook his head, looking wearily over to the knight-captain. She took the rope and nodded, though still confused.

“He-here, Knight-Captain,” the mage forced out as she presented the twisted fibers.

“Much obliged,” Cullen said tiredly as he took it, pausing at the sight of her trembling hands. He looked up at her, seeing the still present fear in her eyes and the tight line of her mouth as she tried to keep her emotions under control. Cullen bound the slavers together, perhaps a little tighter than was necessary, and handed Ebrisa her discarded belt. She took it awkwardly and fumbled with the buckles, but neither of them said anything and stood in silence until a small group of the city guard showed up.

“Knight-Captain,” Aveline called out, all business. “What have you got for us?”

“Slavers, Guard-Captain. Caught red-handed in broad daylight,” Cullen said with a frown. “They're getting bolder with each passing day.”

“Indeed,” she sighed, motioning her men forward as the tanned slaver began to stir. “Fortunate you and your,” Aveline paused slightly, recognizing the pale young woman, “associate... where passing through.”

Cullen shot the mage a look. “Yes, very fortunate.”

They moved away to let the guard deal with the captives and waited until they were at the steps to Hightown to speak again, Cullen being sure to walk close enough to feel the mage's presence at his arm. “Care to tell me what that little stunt was?”

“I was just...” Ebrisa mumbled, knowing she was in trouble. “You were too fast and I got lost. A little boy asked for help and I... I couldn't walk away from that.”

He held back a groan, knowing he shared a part of the blame for not keeping a better eye on his charge. Meredith was apparently shorter on competent men than she thought. The reprimand awaiting him in the Gallows was not going to be a pleasant one.

“Thank you,” Ebrisa said, a little louder. “For rescuing me, I mean.”

Cullen nearly snorted. “I told the Knight-Commander I'd watch you. If I had been doing that properly, you wouldn't have been in that predicament at all. Are you... alright now?”

She let out a shaky breath. “They said there were others – more abducted people – so I'm glad they targeted me.”

The templar looked at her incredulously. “You didn't seem too willing a participant.”

“If they took someone else, then who knows how many others they would kidnap, how many people they have hidden away to be sold into slavery?” Ebrisa turned to him, a timid smile shining past her fear. “Because I was too slow, I lost you. Because I was alone, they targeted me. Because they tried to take me, you stopped them. And now that they're arrested, their captives can be returned to their families and the streets are a little safer. I won't be so presumptuous as to say it was the Maker's will that I get abducted, but it was definitely a good thing.” Her smile widened. “As was your timely rescue, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen felt his cheeks flush and tore his eyes away, telling himself it was because of the sun heating his armor too much. His heart beat rapidly in his chest and he reasoned it was from the physical exertion of climbing the steps. There was a slight dizziness in his head that could only be from the rare praise he was given. It had to be those things, because the alternative was too absurd. He knew better this time.

Trying to distract from the mild symptoms he was suddenly struck with, Cullen asked something that had been bothering him. “Why didn't you fight back against the slavers?”

“Oh, but I did,” Ebrisa replied. “I bit the big one's hand. That's why he dropped me.”

“I know you're in the advanced class now, Trevelyan.” Cullen dared to look at the mage beside him. “You've a whole slew of offensive spells at your disposal.”

She chewed on her lip and stared at the steps. “Yes, well, I don't have sanction to use them outside the Circle.”

“And if they had threatened your life as well as your freedom?”

On this, she didn't hesitate. “Only me? No. If your fight had gone badly or if I was taken to the other captives and they were threatened... in that case I would have acted. I can not justify using my magic to harm for selfish gain, but in defense of others...” She let out a small whisper of a laugh. “The Maker understands necessity.”

Cullen nodded, a little satisfied and a little disappointed by the response. “ _Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds.”_

The mage readjusted her grip on her robes before her fingers cramped, something she had learned to do during her last few trips to Hightown. “ _A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and onto the Maker._ ”

The templar gave her a sideways glance. “Of all the ways you could have commented on my familiarity with the Chant, you choose the verse that calls me a child?”

Ebrisa turned to him and stumbled a little, initially horrified that she had insulted the man, then caught the faint hint of a smirk he was trying so very hard to hide and curved her lips into one of her own. “Well, I felt that, as a templar, you've likely had your fill of the _Canticle of Benedictions_ , stanza four being quoted at you. A little variety couldn't hurt, Knight-Captain.”

He laughed quietly, the rumbling in his chest a sound the mage had not expected, and Ebrisa found herself staring well after it stopped. It was a marvel how much the action had temporarily freed the templar's face from the tight control and firm sternness it usually displayed, how it seemed to make his hard eyes soften and lose a bit of the shadows that resided there. Ebrisa vowed to do her best to make the change happen as often as possible, even if the sound hadn't sent a pleasant tingling over her skin.

The Chantry was quiet when they entered, having arrived in between services, and Cullen stopped at the end of the entry hall. “I'll await you here once my business is concluded,” he said in a respectful, hushed tone. “Do not feel the need to hurry through your own task, Trevelyan.”

Ebrisa nodded. “Thank you.” They parted ways and the mage approached the first sister she saw, recognizing her as one who visited the Gallows. “Excuse me, Sister Selby?”

The woman spun around, blinking first in recognition, then confusion. “Oh. Its you, child. How may I assist?”

“I am here for confession, Sister Selby. Might you be able to find someone?”

Selby made an uncomfortable noise. “Sister Samea and Lorena just left and Mother Edsel is under the weather...” She glanced up to see Mother Petrice and Cullen walk into an office. “I'm not sure if anyone is available at the moment.”

“Oh...” Ebrisa tried to hide her disappointment. “I understand.”

The cleric frowned, nearly feeling the wave of distress emanating from the mage. “I can't begin to imagine what you are suffering, but fret not, I _will_ find someone.” She motioned to the confessionals and smiled reassuringly. “Go ahead and wait in the first on the left, child.”

Ebrisa gave a slight curtsey in thanks and did as instructed, waiting patiently in the booth for a member of the clergy. Just as she was beginning to grow anxious that Cullen had already finished his task and was waiting – despite him specifically telling her to not concern herself with that – she heard someone enter the other side and sit down. It was not the normal soft rustling of fabric, but rather a clinking noise like someone spilled a full coin purse. She was suspicious that the person on the other side of the screen was not ordained to hear confessions and some prankster until the person spoke.

“Good day, child,” the unmistakeable brogue of the brother who heard her first confession years ago sounded through the fabric barrier. “Confess before the Maker and be absolved of your sins.”

She relaxed, knowing the person was true to the task, and took a breath. “Good day, Brother. It has been nine months since my last confession.” Ebrisa had made it a point to take confession every chance she got, knowing that despite her best efforts, there was always something she had done wrong.

“What weighs on you?”

“I have failed my friend,” she began, feeling the tears welling up already. This was going to be harder to say than she thought. The next breath she took had a noticeable shakiness to it.

“Take your time.”

There was a loud creak from the other side. “ _There_ you are,” an exasperated female voice sighed, muffled faintly by Ebrisa's still sealed side. “I need your help with something, Seb.”

“Have you no respect?!” The brother nearly shouted over the clinking noise as he moved, presumably to grab the door to close it. “I'm in the middle of something.”

“I thought you broke your Chantry vows,” the muffled woman said, causing Ebrisa to stiffen.

“There are still many tasks I can assist with,” he responded quickly. “I can still take confessions, Hawke. Now if you could just give us some time?”

Hawke.

Ebrisa burst out of the booth and rounded the other side, stopping short of colliding with the dark-haired warrior and her companions. “It didn't work, Messere Hawke! We didn't help him!”

Hawke pulled back a little, taking in the mage's reddening eyes. “Didn't help who?”

“Feynriel,” Ebrisa let out, needing to swallow the lump in her throat before she could continue. “You all tried so hard, but you came too late. The demons got to him – did something – I don't know what...” She blinked away the blur in her vision, sending the built up tears down her cheeks. “He woke up Tranquil.”

“Oh,” Hawke lowered her eyes, grip tightening on the door of the confessional. “That wasn't the demons. That happened... because he was killed in the Fade.”

The blonde furrowed her brow in confusion. “Then... is Messere Merrill also...?”

“I'm fine, don't you worry about me,” Merrill smiled awkwardly, standing beside a rather immodestly dressed tanned woman. “It wasn't _my_ dream, da'len.”

Ebrisa turned back to Hawke, voice growing quiet. “Did... did you know that would happen?”

The warrior tensed. “Marethari warned me that if Feynriel became an abomination, he would be much too powerful. That if there was no way to save his mind, I would have to...” She looked the apprentice straight in the eye. “Yes, I knew.”

A silence fell over the group as the young woman absorbed this new information. Hawke had not struck down Feynriel to wake him, but as an act of mercy to keep him from falling prey to demons, his mind no longer strong enough to resist them on his own. Hawke braced for an outraged berating like what Anders threw at her when he learned what had happened, but instead the red-faced mage fell to her knees and cried.

“I knew it. I _knew_ I shouldn't have given up so easily,” Ebrisa forced out. “I was in his dream for _two days,_ but when I couldn't break him of the desire demon's hold, I stopped trying to reach him. Feynriel let me in so I could help him, and I didn't do anything! I dug my nails into that door, but stopped when it hurt too much. Pain in the Fade means nothing... I should have been able to push it away...”

Sebastian knelt in front of her, the chainmail shirt of his armor shifting with the movement. “From what I understand, the demons vying for Feynriel were powerful. Able to sway loyal friends against each other with nary a lift of their finger.” He looked to Merrill for some kind of support.

The elf quickly jumped in. “Its true! I would never _really_ hit Hawke, well, maybe a bit of a love tap to the arm when she's being too snarky, but never in a thousand years did I think I would try to kill her.”

“But a demon didn't convince me to do nothing, I chose that on my own,” Ebrisa whimpered, wiping at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. “The demon used me against him. Before I found them, it was a completely different trick. When Feynriel saw me, he broke free just a little. I should have pushed harder at that point! I shouldn't have gotten scared by Feynriel's actions... I should have stayed strong...”

“Scared by...?” Hawke trailed off, remembering exactly what she saw the desire demon and Feynriel doing. “So, am I right in thinking he started kissing on you first?”

Ebrisa nodded numbly. “She twisted his feelings for me, made him act so... Feynriel wouldn't have done any of those things.” She looked up at Hawke, struggling to stay in control of her emotions, fearful of setting fire to a Chantry once again or harming any of the people there. “You didn't kill him right away, you know. There were a few seconds where he stared at me so sadly, like I betrayed him. I see it when I close my eyes...” The mage dropped her head, pressing her clasped hands painfully against her forehead. “That's why I failed him. I gave the demon a stronger hold, I strained his mind by being there so long, I did nothing to help...”

Sebastian motioned for the others to give them some space and, for once, they listened. He placed a hand on the mage's right shoulder. “Is this what you came to confess?”

“Yes, Brother...” Ebrisa mumbled, her voice suddenly tired as the tears subsided.

“I am afraid that you have a knack for imagining sins where there are none.” Had the mage not been so distraught, had the situation not been so grave, he might have chuckled at the incredulous look she gave him. “I have had a... recent encounter with a demon of desire that had taken hold of a family friend. She did terrible things in her lust for power, but that demon did not create that lust, it only nurtured what was already there.”

“So what are you saying? That Feynriel _wanted_ to... to do... those things with me?”

“I am saying that perhaps the boy felt more for you than a friend would, but could neither act upon it nor voice his feelings. Maybe the reason you were there wasn't to stop him from becoming Tranquil, but to give him a glimmer of what might have been before he lost the ability to love.”

Ebrisa was still for a long while, holding her clasped hands to her mouth. “That seems a rather cruel thing... to show someone love only to rip it away.”

Sebastian placed his other hand on her left shoulder, gently raising her hunched form until she met his eyes. “I know that sometimes it is hard to see the Maker's hand in things, but would it not have been crueler for Feynriel to never know love at all?”

The brother waited until she was calm and offered her a handkerchief for her tears. He helped her rise to her feet and gave her a light smile. “Not that I am encouraging you to do anything improper, but perhaps pray a bit harder next time you wish to confess something and decide if it is truly a sin. It will save you a mighty long walk and a rather unnecessary burden.” Ebrisa handed back the dampened cloth and nodded, her lips curled up just a little. “There's a good lass.”

The mage moved away and Hawke returned to Sebastian's side, beginning to explain the bit of work she needed him for. Something about clearing a patrol route before someone went on patrol. As Ebrisa stepped further away to join Cullen, she noticed that Hawke's words were still rather easy to make out, despite the distance and not overly loud volume. She stopped just short of the templar, realizing that he must have heard her conversation with the others, and blanked on what to do. Surely he would ask, clarify with her what had happened in the Fade so he could add it to Feynriel's file, maybe force her through the Harrowing to ensure the demon's she'd been exposed to hadn't left any ill effects.

When Cullen did turn, he only glanced at her briefly before looking straight ahead again. “Did you find what you needed?”

Ebrisa had gone to the Chantry to confront her guilt, to seek penance for her shameful actions, to grasp some measure of peace and reason. She was certain her words had made their way across the quiet room to where the templar was standing, but he made no indication he had heard any of it, trying to afford her some of the privacy she lost from Hawke's eagerness and her own impulsive actions. Ebrisa took her place beside Cullen and nodded, a light smile on her brightening face. “Yes, Knight-Captain, I found it.”

 


	8. Chapel

While speaking with Hawke and Sebastian had erased the negative thoughts from her mind, Ebrisa's journey outside the Gallows only seemed to increase the suspicions and rumors against her. There had been a shift in the behavior of the templars as well, the warriors picking her out of the crowd more often and watching her intently. Ebrisa did her best to ignore the quiet judging and took solace in her studies, spending much of her free time in her quarters or the library. She still tended the yards as dutifully as before, but did not linger longer than necessary, knowing no one could enjoy the space while she was in it.

Edan had been working diligently to advance to the third tier class, making the cut a week after Ebrisa moved to the fourth, and found himself sitting beside Alain and Ella more often than not. He was originally frustrated that he just barely missed out on taking lessons with the blonde – especially since she looked like she could use a friend in class – but Alain reminded him much of what he missed in Starkhaven and Ella was friendly. The dark-haired girl seemed a bit absent minded, forgetting at least one of her books everyday and scooting close to share Edan's text. She asked him a lot of questions, despite being in the group for longer, and would zone out whenever the senior enchanter had the boy read a passage.

Ella was around his age and always tried to partner up during practical lessons, a thing Alain and a few others in the class teased him about, but Edan honestly couldn't see the humor in it. The two of them were simply well matched in skill level, so it made the best balance for practice. After lessons one day, Ella pulled him aside.

“Edan, I don't want to be nosy, but...” She frowned in concern, taking a moment to gather her words. “You spend a lot of time with that Trevelyan. Are you sure that's... safe?”

He narrowed his eyes just a bit. “And why wouldn't it be?”

“Well, she... I mean, I've _heard things.”_

“Don't you haver, Ella. What's this about?”

The girl looked around to check if they would be overheard, then leaned in closer, her cheeks tinting slightly from the decrease in distance. “She's Meredith's spy. Trevelyan will make you Tranquil if you speak out against the knight-commander!”

“What?” Edan snorted and shook his head. “That bit of rubbish? I thought you were smarter than to believe every dim-witted blether, Ella.”

“I'm serious! It's dangerous to get too close – just look at what happened to Feynriel!”

He was quiet for a long while, staring down his peer until she squirmed under his gaze. “Since I know you mean well, I'll forget you said any of this and tomorrow we can carry on like it never happened. But right now, I'm walking away.” Edan pushed past the girl and continued on to his quarters, stepping harder than usual and trying to keep his frown of displeasure from turning into a full-on scowl. His anger had always been an issue, but the Circle had helped him rein in the emotion before it attracted any unwanted attention in the Fade. He still brooded and snapped, like any respectable young teen would, but his rage rarely flared up anymore.

Unless his friends were threatened. Especially if Ebrisa was.

It wasn't the first time he had heard that particular piece of gossip, catching harsh whispers of _pet_ and _traitor_ whenever he walked with Ebrisa. She would keep her eyes forward and pretend she couldn't hear, but Edan knew her better than to believe the fake smile. He sighed heavily, the heat of his anger cooling with the encroaching sadness. Ebrisa had taken to being by herself, avoiding him and Vemara as much as possible without being obvious about it. Edan knew she was doing it to keep them from being dragged in to the uneasy spiral forming around her, to protect them from ugly rumors, to give them a chance at an enjoyable life in the Circle.

Vemara – for all the time she spent near the older girl – was gloriously oblivious to everything. Maybe sleeping in the same room every night made the change too gradual to notice, or maybe the elf thought things would get better on their own. Edan couldn't help but wonder if he had been that naive, not necessarily at her age, just... _ever_.

He knocked on Ebrisa's door and waited for the startled invitation before walking in and plopping down on the blonde's made bed. She looked at him curiously from the desk, twisting in the chair to do so.

“Jarrett is too noisy,” Edan mumbled as he cracked open a book, pretending to read. He knew that sitting on her bed, surrounded by her faintly floral scent would make any actual studying impossible, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He wanted to offer her a bit of company without giving her the chance to reject it and knew how strongly she felt about academics. Edan saw her nod and smile, watching the young woman turn back to her own heavy tome from the corner of his eye. Maker, that fake smile again.

The last time he'd seen a real twist of happiness adorn her lips was when she had come back from the unscheduled Chantry visit. He and Vemara were curious where she had run off to, but Ebrisa was oddly vague about the trip. She smiled as she told them a little, her cheeks flushing before each awkward jump in the narrative, as though she was remembering something she'd rather not share. A few days later, Edan had learned one of the details his friend omitted and was none too happy about it.

She had gone with the knight-captain. _Just_ the knight-captain.

He wasn't overly concerned – a bit concerned, sure, he wasn't stupid – because there were rules about fraternization between mages and templars and, if nothing else, Ebrisa was a stickler for such things. She saw the merit of every rule, every restriction, and followed them without question. Her blind faith in authority – be it the Maker, the Chantry, the Circle, the templars, or the government – had served Ebrisa well enough over the years and she wasn't about to start rebelling now.

Beyond the rumors circulating about his friend, Edan had been hearing some other things. Some apprentices claimed their mail wasn't going out, swore family members were being turned away from visiting, and that templars had raised hands against them – beaten them – for no reason at all. Alain admitted he'd woken up one night to find Ser Karras standing in his quarters with his hand on his sword hilt, as if waiting for the mage to become an abomination in his sleep.

It was true that the Gallows had seemed to change in the short time he'd been there, but had yet to witness anything truly worrying with his own eyes. It was possible most of the complaints were paranoid ramblings, misinterpreted comments or actions, but not everything could be explained away. He was becoming uneasy around large groups of templars, and they always seemed to travel in packs like a hunting party of wolves.

Edan turned a page to keep up the illusion that he was reading and glanced at Ebrisa once again. She may be a model mage apprentice, but he feared that her unquestioning loyalty could make her easy prey for those in power who might not care about the rules as much as she did.

~~~~~~~~  
The tension in Kirkwall with the Qunari had been steadily growing worse everyday for years. The viscount was in a difficult position trying to placate the foreign warriors and calm the citizens. Many called for the massive soldiers to be ejected from the city, and if it came to blows, the templars would need to step in. They were the largest army in Kirkwall and its best chance to stop the conquering of the city. Peaceful relations _also_ kept the conquering away.

Peaceful relations were becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.

Cullen leaned forward in the chapel's front pew, staring at his sister's letter once again. He'd read the message so many times by now that the words were practically memorized. He tried to imagine them coming out angrily from Mia's mouth, but he realized that not only was his elder sister now a woman and would sound different, but he couldn't recall exactly what her voice was like before either. He folded the letter back up for the hundredth time, lining up the creases with care and slipping it back into the envelope to keep it protected.

He heard soft footsteps approaching, not the loud clanking of a templar, and quickly rose to his feet. Cullen tucked the letter into his sash and left the chapel, not wanting to get caught in a moment of weakness by his charges or make a sister think he was running out on a service. He turned the corner and sighed in relief when the footsteps faded, indicating the person had entered the chapel. It did rather feel like he was hiding from the clergy, however, and a small pang of shame washed over him. Cullen was a strong believer in the Maker and His holy bride and tried to attend services in the Chantry at least once a week – the only time he could be found out of uniform – but he had trouble associating the Maker's Light with Circles. Here, he was always to be vigilant, always watching for trouble. Here, he could not let his heart sing the Chant. Not after everything he had seen.

To his annoyance, the footsteps returned, moving quickly behind him. He groaned, thinking he had been seen fleeing and the sister was going to try and drag him back. Ignoring the lapse in his faith was easy when he could separate the devote man from the dedicated templar, but having the issue forced in front of him tended to make him feel like a fraud. Hoping his pursuer would take the hint and give up, he increased his pace. The robed figure did too.

Groaning in frustration, Cullen spun around. “Can I _help_ you?” He snapped the words unintentionally.

Ebrisa stood in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide and mouth hanging open just a bit in surprise. “I- I just...”

Well, at least he hadn't yelled at a cleric. Somehow, this didn't feel much better. “Yes, Trevelyan?”

She extended her hands, holding out an envelope addressed to him. “You dropped this, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen's hand flew to his waist, feeling for the letter's duplicate and finding nothing. “So I have...” He took the envelope, noting how carefully the mage held it, and checked the contents to ensure Mia's letter was inside. After losing it once, he wasn't going to walk away again without everything. He glanced at the young woman and caught her eyes briefly. “Thank you. This is... thank you.”

Her lips moved into what should have been a smile, but it fell just short of the name. “The difference in writing between your name and the address shows how much the author cares for you, so I knew it had to be important.”

“The difference...?” He echoed, studying the front of the envelope.

“In the pen strokes,” Ebrisa explained, moving to his side to point at the dark swirls. “The address is neat, but some of the letters run together with just the tinniest trail of ink, as though the quill wasn't lifted off the parchment enough. Your name, however, is written out with deliberate, defined strokes. _Ser. Cullen. Stanton. Rutherford._ Not a single slip of the hand in the entire line.”

Cullen let out a single puff of laughter. “How did I not notice that?”

“In all likelihood, you were more captivated by the contents of the letter than its packaging. A testament to how special this person is to you.”

“She is,” he smiled at that. “The whole lot of them are.”

“Whole... lot...?”

“That's right. Though I'm sure Rosalie would like to think she's the favorite just because she's the youngest,” Cullen explained as he tucked the letter away, taking the time to ensure it was properly secured. When he looked back at the mage, her face was amusingly red.

“And they...” Ebrisa lowered her voice. “They know about each other?”

“Yes?” He raised a brow at the mage. “Why wouldn't they...” The words trailed off as he figured out what the young woman was thinking before he flushed a bit himself. “Maker's Breath, I'm referring to my siblings!”

Ebrisa covered her face to hide her horrified expression, but her ears burned a shade Cullen hadn't even thought was humanly possible. “Oh, I- I am _so –_ Andraste's Pyre! Of course you wouldn't have multiple lovers. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that, Knight-Captain. You are a man of character, and I am – Maker's Mercy – I am an idiot.”

Cullen was used to making mages uncomfortable, but to see Ebrisa work herself up into an embarrassed, fumbling mess without any assistance from him brought a lightness to his weighed down thoughts and he chuckled. The mage stopped her babbling and lowered her hands, staring up at the man.

“Apologies, Trevelyan,” he said as the too short bit of mirth subsided. “It was rather cruel of me to laugh.”

She straighten and brushed back her hair, but dropped her gaze. “Not at all, Knight-Captain. I'd gladly subject myself to further humiliation if it allowed you to laugh more.” Ebrisa raised her eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Though I hope that isn't the only way to make it happen.”

“I hope so, too, though it was a rather enjoyable sight.” Was he flirting? That couldn't be right – he knew better than that. Cullen stiffened a bit, unsure where the thought had come from, and cleared his throat. “Might I ask why your mind skipped the possibility of family altogether?”

“Oh,” Ebrisa's cheeks were still a bit pink and she looked to the ceiling. “Well, it was obviously feminine handwriting and the envelope was worn, but cared for...”

“As one might treat a letter from their elder sister,” Cullen added after she trailed off, encouraging her to finish.

She laughed awkwardly and stared at her feet, rubbing her forehead. “As I said, you're a man of character. You care about the men under your command. You're honorable, kind, clever, and... uh... any girl would find you... I mean... yo-you're... handsome.” Ebrisa cleared her throat after rushing through the final word, still studying the tips of her shoes poking out from her robes. “It seemed obvious that there would be at least one girl after you.”

Cullen felt his face heat again, blaming the lack of moving air in the corridor. “That is... encouraging to hear, but no. Two sisters, one brother, zero girlfriends.”

“That's good to know,” Ebrisa said quietly, then snapped up her head, eyes wide. “I mean, the siblings part. I'm the opposite. Two brothers, one sister, zero girlfriends. Ah, I mean boyfriends – I mean both! I- I'm just...” she took a rather large breath and closed her eyes. “I'm going to stop talking.”

Cullen resisted the urge to laugh again and tried to not dwell on the notion that the mage had likely just flirted with him as well. “Weren't you on your way to the chapel?”

“Oh!” Ebrisa turned to look down the hall. “That's right, the service. It should be Sister Kendra's turn, but she's always a little late.” She faced the templar once again. “Is that why you left? She was taking too long?”

“I... I wasn't in there for service,” he admitted awkwardly. “I just needed a calm place to figure out where I went wrong in my investigation.”

“What do you mean?” She tilted her head a little, brows furrowing slightly before they shot up. “You don't have to answer that. I-I shouldn't have asked. Templar business...”

Normally, that would be correct, but he needed to get this off his chest and the mage was surprisingly easy to talk to. “You recall when we went to the Chantry?” She nodded, and he continued. “There had been some strange rumors about Ser Varnell and he was Mother Petrice's bodyguard when she was still a sister, so I spoke with her about them. She said he was very dedicated to the Chantry, very protective of its values, and always had the faithful's safety in mind. I deemed it enough...”

“And it wasn't?”

“Mother Petrice could not fully convey _how_ zealous Ser Varnell was. He saw the Qunari presence as an attack on Andrastians and... took matters into his own hands.” Cullen folded his arms and sighed heavily. “I've no love for the heathens either, but Varnell went too far. He misused the Grand Cleric's seal, captured a peaceful Qunari delegation, and killed them. He dragged several innocents into his scheme and when the viscount sent someone to find the missing Qunari, there was a blood bath.”

“That... that's awful,” Ebrisa whispered, unable to find any other words.

“If I had only dug deeper in my investigation, I could have stopped Varnell from enacting this plot. I could have saved the lives of devote people who thought they were acting under the Grand Cleric. Now, on top of that, the tension with the Qunari has become even more strained.”

“Knight-Captain... that – none of that – was your fault,” Ebrisa said softly before placing a hesitant hand on his arm. “If a Mother of the Chantry could not see the twisted ideals Ser Varnell had, then how could you? These deaths, Andrastian and Qunari both, are not on your head.”

“I would very much like to believe that,” Cullen muttered.

She watched him a moment longer, gathering up her courage for what she would do next. It was possibly foolish and undoubtedly crossed several lines, but the mage took a breath and slipped her hand into the crook of Cullen's elbow. “Come on. You need to hear something.”

He could have easily pulled out of her grip or simply not moved his feet and tell the mage _no_ , but Cullen let her lead him back to the chapel. There were a few others already scattered across the pews and the cleric was barely situating herself at the pulpit as Ebrisa slipped in the back row, guiding Cullen after her. This was precisely what he was trying to avoid the last time he was in the room and glanced uneasily towards the open entryway.

“You don't have to sing the Chant, if you don't want to,” Ebrisa whispered at his side, drawing his attention back to her. “I know you have your reasons for not worshiping here – few do – and you can leave whenever you wish. All I ask is that you listen to at least a little.”

Again, Cullen looked to the framed opening in the wall, then back to the mage. Her focus was on the front of the room where Sister Kendra was raising her hands and preparing to lead the Chant of Light. He knew that if he slipped out of the pew and walked away right then, Ebrisa wouldn't say anything. She would likely be disappointed, perhaps saddened by the action, and the idea of causing her such distress did not sit well with him. _That_ idea didn't sit well with him either. Still, it would not hurt to do as she asked and just listen for a little while. A few verses to satisfy her request, and then he could depart without feeling guilty.

The Chant began and he nearly jumped at the sweet, confident voice beside him that joined instantly with the sister. The others in the chapel stumbled in, timing a little wrong or a note off key as they worked their way through the _Canticle of Trials_. No, that was wrong. The small congregation worked their way, but Ebrisa flowed with it. It was easy to isolate her singing from the others, to focus on the well practiced rhythm of the words as they drifted from her lips. Before he realized it, Cullen had closed his eyes and joined in.

 

“ _I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself.”_

He _had_ forgotten himself; forgot the wide-eyed little boy who begged the local templars to teach him, forgot the determined brother who trained with his siblings every day, forgot the eager recruit who studied diligently, forgot the idealistic templar who thought mages needed a soft touch.

 

_“I cannot see the path._

_Perhaps there is only abyss.”_

He lost sight of himself to Uldred's madness. He lost friends, both templar and mage - lost _her._ He lost the notion that mages were people. The possibility for disaster, the temptation for wicked power, was too great for mages and they could not be trusted. They had to be watched. They were a danger to all, including themselves. Especially themselves.

 

“ _For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light,”_

Mages held potential for devastating, dark acts. He had already seen more blood mages in Kirkwall than he ever even _heard_ about in Fereldan, reaffirming the need for stricter rules, but not every mage in the Gallows had the glint of wickedness in their eyes. He saw it often, the shadows that cast over the faces of those who plotted against their _jailers,_ but in some there was only light. Those who understood Andraste's teachings, understood the Maker's laws, understood the Chantry's rules...

 

“ _I am not alone. Even_

_As I stumble on the path_

_With my eyes closed, yet I see...”_

Cullen had forgotten and lost and was surrounded by shadows. He remembered he became a templar to help people. He found a certainty in his task, even when he stumbled and made mistakes. He discovered that the brightness of an honest, caring, humble soul could be a beacon of light and banish the darkness... for at least a little while.

 

_“The Light is here.”_

He stopped singing and opened his eyes, watching the young woman beside him as she continued to the next verse. How had she known that this stanza would help, that it would make him address so many underlying issues? He considered himself a rather private person, but she'd been able to read his unspoken concerns and offer him aid in a way he wasn't obligated to take. She was... different.

He knew he was intense, his duty demanded it. The mages – and many templars, in fact – were rather fearful of him due to his strict adherence to the rules and dedication to the Order. It had to be that way, but Ebrisa wasn't scared of him. She would become nervous or flustered, but only when she felt she had done something wrong or offended. They hadn't spent a great deal of time together, but it seemed to be enough for the young woman to understand him and her interaction with him had become less formal. Always respectful, but no longer stiff.

Cullen knew he should try and change that, to revert their – their, what, friendship? - back to a formal level. They should not be fraternizing. While Ebrisa was not directly under his care, as Meredith's second, every mage was technically Cullen's charge. Whatever this... _thing_ was that was going on between them, it had to stop. If today's reflexive flirting was any indication, they were heading down a dangerous path and he had to correct their course before either of them acknowledged it as something more than... friendly. He had been down that road before. _He knew better now_.

Waiting for a break in the verse, Cullen quietly stood up from the pew and left the chapel, the singing, and Ebrisa far behind.

~~~~~~~~

 


	9. Tranquil Solution

With the unease in the city growing, many citizens were beginning to stock up on supplies in the hopes of barring their doors and waiting out whatever conflict would ignite the Qunari. Merchants of all trades came to the Gallows for potions and protective wards and Solivitus was having trouble keeping up with the volume demand for healing tonics – so much so that he enlisted the help of Senior Enchanter Berenice. The elderly woman was not any more suited to the task than the shop keep, and turned to her students for assistance with the grunt work. A few enchanters volunteered aide, swinging by after Berenice finished her lessons, and helped with the more complex elements.

Though they were all there by choice, there was grumbling from time to time. Berenice would silence them with reminders that profits from Formari services helped supply the Circle with better equipment and that Solivitus had promised to order some sweets from the city at the end of the week for all who helped. Not a single mage in the room was under the age of seventeen, but the bribe of candy was still an effective one.

“All of the elfroot has been ground and set to boil, Senior Enchanter,” Ebrisa said as she approached the woman. “Shall I go fetch more from the garden?”

“No, no. This will be more than enough work for us today.” Berenice placed one final corked flask in the small, segmented crate and set it atop another. “Could you be a dear and take these to Solivitus? I'm sure he's getting rather anxious by now.”

“Of course.” The apprentice took hold of the crates and slid them off the table, yelping slightly when she finally had their full weight in her arms. She adjusted her grip a little, shifting the load until she had it rested on her hip, and headed for the door. Ebrisa was a bit self conscious about the shape her body had grown into over the years and was thankful for the multiple layers of clothing that hid the wideness of her hips and, apparently, _doughiness_ of her chest. She really did need to get a new breast band...

The glass containers rattled with each step, but were in no danger of breaking as she walked down the corridor. She earned a few odd looks as she went, different from what she had been getting, but odd all the same.

Carver was on a simple patrol of the interior, glad to not be set on library sentry duty again, and followed the clinking noise to the corridor intersection. He looked around the corner and saw the blonde mage struggling with her load coming from the bisecting path. He raised a brow as she passed, following her with his eyes. The weight resting at her side forced her hips into an exaggerated sway and the templar tilted his head just a bit to better appreciate the action. Carver snapped to attention, realizing what he was doing, and called out to the mage.

Ebrisa turned, a little flushed and out of breath from her task. “Ser Carver,” she panted, the sound of his name coming out in puffs from her lips filling the templar with an improper thought or two. “May I help you?”

Carver shook his head to dislodge the thoughts and stepped over to the mage. “What are you doing?”

“Delivering healing tonics to Messere Solivitus.” Ebrisa shifted the crates on her jutted out hip.

“Ah, yes. Business is booming, from what I understand.” He could practically hear his mother nagging in his ear to be a gentleman, a far departure to the voice and direction that echoed in his mind a moment ago. “Need a hand?”

“You are kind to offer, but haven't you duties of your own to attend to?” Even as she tried to refuse, her hands shook with the effort of supporting the flasks.

“There's a dozen of us roaming the halls at the moment,” Carver sighed as he looked over his shoulder. “I think a detour from patrol to ensure you don't drop these is perfectly acceptable.” He took both the crates, dealing with the weight easily.

The mage frowned a little, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “That would be my luck, I suppose, to stumble and break every bit of glass.”

“I didn't mean... ah. Well, no one's luck is very good around here, is it?” He offered her a smile and she took it along with one of the small crates. He protested the sharing of the load, but she insisted.

“I'm not about to let another completely take over a task given to me,” she huffed softly as they walked. “It wouldn't be fair, even though I'm certain you could carry the crates and me both.”

“Is that a challenge, Trevelyan?” Carver gave her a cheeky grin. “You should know, I don't back down from challenges.”

Ebrisa turned to him sharply, face red as the templar studied her, as if trying to figure out the best way to lift her without dropping the tonics. “Do not dare, Ser Carver. I only meant you seem very strong.” She eyed the massive sword secured to his back to emphasize her point. “Not many templars wield two-handed weapons. I can only think of a few confident enough in the skill to forgo the added protection from magic of a shield – and that includes the knight-commander.”

He smirked and blushed and looked away, uncertain how to feel about receiving unsolicited praise. “A compliment from a pretty girl? Didn't think it was my birthday.”

She stumbled a little, her own face heating. “I- I would say more of an observation... I haven't seen you train, but you must have come into the templars with a fair amount of skill already to not join the majority.”

“Well, I sparred a lot growing up. Father would work with Bethany while Dee and I hit each other until one of us gave up.”

“Dee is your brother?”

Carver groaned a little. “Older sister. Deavelle. She's insufferably stubborn and would never yield. Course, I wouldn't either...”

She giggled quietly. “By your own logic, doesn't that make you _insufferably stubborn_ as well?”

He paused, then swore under his breath. “At least I'm not a sarcastic jackass.”

They were nearly at the formari shops and already halfway down the final set of steps when the mage's robes caught under her shoe and she lurched forward. She held tightly to the crate, refusing to drop the thing with her goal in sight, and braced for the awkward impact of stone steps. Instead, she felt an arm circle around her waist and grip her tightly, holding her horizontal.

“Looks like you were right,” Carver laughed as he walked down the rest of the stairs with Ebrisa under one arm and a crate under the other. “I _can_ carry you both.”

Her face burned as the adrenaline of her near fall faded and she was struck with an array of conflicting emotions. She was thankful the templar prevented physical injury, but being caught so intimately and held so undignified filled her with embarrassment and horror, to leave a few other things unnamed. When he stepped off the stairs and eased her back to her feet, the mage stiffly handed Solivitus her half of the tonics, finally releasing her death grip on the crate. Carver set the rest on the stand's table before dusting off his hands, as if he'd done nothing wrong.

“Oh boy, baby brother, that is _so_ not how you sweep a lady off her feet,” a familiar female voice laughed out behind them.

“Junior's being a bit too literal – and I usually _like_ literal,” a rumbling voice added.

“Ha. Author pun.”

Carver groaned and turned around. “Hello, Dee. Varric.”

“You know, I've got a sneaking suspicion that he doesn't want us here,” Hawke hummed as she looked down at the dwarf.

“You know, you're probably right,” Varric agreed with a nod.

“What are you doing in the Gallows?” Carver sighed, mentally waving goodbye to the nice day he _was_ having.

Hawke strode past her brother and swung a bag off her shoulder. “Making a delivery to good ol' Sol.” She shifted her attention from the now scowling templar to the balding herbalist. “I believe this is everything you asked for. Sorry if varterral blood got everywhere, but the damn heart just kept leaking.”

Solivitus took the bag excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, not at all, my friend, not at all! You are a blessing from the Maker himself.” Carver worked very hard to hold back a snort as his sister was paid for her troubles.

Hawke shook the coins in her hand and nodded before getting a good look at the mage her brother had unceremoniously carried down the steps. Her eyes widened a little in recognition and she threw an arm around the blonde's shoulder, turning to face the others and bringing her captive with her. “Hey, look! It's Pipsqueak!”

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “Nope.”

“But she's short and she squeaks! Come on, cut me some slack here.”

“You know each other?” Carver raised a brow, then sighed. “Of course you do.”

Ebrisa looked between the two dark-haired warriors, pulling forward the information she had just learned. “Do you assist the templars so much because of your brother, Messere Deavelle?”

Hawke stiffened at her side as Varric smirked and Carver burst into laughter. “What... what did you just call me?”

“Deavelle, messere,” the mage looked up at the warrior's reddening face. “That is your name, is it not?”

“No, Kiddo, this is Hawke. Family name.” Varric watched the murderous expression begin to take shape on his friend's face that was, thankfully, not directed at him.

“Wouldn't it just be confusing to refer to one family member by the family name when there are two present?” Ebrisa tilted her head slightly. “Isn't Ser Carver as entitled to the name as Messere Deavelle?”

“Stop with that name,” Hawke growled, her glare intensifying on Carver before removing her arm and staring down at the blonde. “I called dibs. This isn't like something that goes away in groups. I'm Hawke, and he's Carver. If we run into another Trevelyan mage, I'll let you keep the Trevelyan.” She sounded as if she was bargaining.

“We thankfully aren't at risk of that happening, messere.” Ebrisa's lips tugged upwards into a weak smile. “I do believe I am the only one to darken my family's reputation for generations. In the templars, however, you would encounter many of my cousins.” She looked eastward with a far off gaze. “We grew too prideful, I think, too certain of our righteousness and duty to the Maker that I was cursed as a reminder, to bring them humility.”

The small group watched the mage, surprised by the confidence in her words. She believed that, every bit of it, and her faith suddenly seemed a sad thing.

“I must get back to Senior Enchanter Berenice. She surely has another task for me,” Ebrisa dipped into a brief curtsey and excused herself, walking back up the steps and inside the fortress.

“Carver?” Hawke said quietly after a few moments of silence. “Is she... doing okay? Things were a little intense the last time I saw her.”

“She's, um, I think so?” He honestly had no idea, having only spoken with the mage a handful of times, and wasn't given much time to ponder as he felt a presence behind him.

“Ser Carver, I was under the impression that you had patrol duty today,” Cullen said with more bite in his words than he intended, making the only slightly younger man jump in his skin.

“Yes, Knight-Captain, I was heading back inside right now.” Carver glanced at his sister, laying the blame on her with his eyes, before jogging up the steps.

Cullen let out a quiet sigh and folded his arms. “I would appreciate it if you did not harass your brother while he is on duty, Hawke.”

“Right, save it for family visit day.” She smirked and turned to faced the knight-captain. “By the way, you seen Emeric around? Aveline says he's been a pain to the guard. Again.”

~~~~~~  
The more offensive magic Ebrisa learned, the more she realized she didn't want to use it. Feeling the power rush from her fingers and shatter stone or reduce ice to vapor in seconds made the mage uneasy and the thought of what those spells could do to a living being kept her up for hours. She wasn't a fool, however, and knew that mages could be called upon by the government, the Chantry, and even the Grey Wardens in times of conflict to fight. Fighting monsters and creatures was one thing, but to attack another person was something she didn't know if she could do.

Whispers of rebellion floated around the Gallows. Grace – never fully recovered from the death of her bloodmage lover – was particularly vocal about the freedoms mages were denied and how it would take everyone to see that corrected. Each day she grew more convincing and each night another mage would try and slip away. Some made it out into the city or the caves on the coast, some were caught before they passed the walls, and few of them survived – fewer still remained mages. Seeing the number of Tranquil rise made many uneasy and spurred them on to bolder escape attempts – some resorting to outright aggression, using those offensive spells without sanction to attack the templars. That tactic only served to make life more difficult for those who remained.

Curfews became stricter, patrols of the grounds nearly doubled, and the isolation cells were seeing more use than they had in years. The mages who followed the rules and did as instructed by both the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander carried on with life as usual, but were not blind to the things going on around them. The severity of punishments seemed to depend as much on the infraction as it did with the templar who dealt it. A terrible rumor began to circulate that incident reports were being padded to justify harsher penalties. An even darker one claimed Ser Alrik only turned to the Rite of Tranquility and soon all others would follow.

 

Ebrisa shifted in her sleep, the tiny change in position being enough to send her body slipping out of the chair and dropping to the floor, pulling the loose sheets of her notes fluttering after her. She groaned with pain and rolled off her back, blinking away the sleep as her eyes adjusted to the dark room. A sheet of parchment was stuck to her face, hopefully from prolonged pressure and not unladylike drool, and she tugged it free with a soft hiss. Ebrisa cleaned up her little mess and set it haphazardly on the desk she'd dozed off at. The candle was completely burned out, meaning she must have been asleep for at least a few hours, and she began to shed her robes to prepare for actual rest in her bed. Her eyes fell on the other bed in the room, wanting to ensure she didn't wake her roommate, and she stilled.

The bed was empty. Vemara was gone.

Panic washed over her as she tried to think. The elf was too young to try and flee the Circle – beside having no real reason to do so – and Ebrisa would have heard a commotion if someone took the girl by force. She could only think of one place to look and darted out of her quarters in only her undermost layer of robes and soft shoes. The mage moved through the corridors swiftly, but quietly, in hopes of finding the child and bringing her back before either of them were caught. Despite her efforts, the scuffling of her shoes echoed in the stairwell and alerted a templar to her movements.

The moons were high in the night sky, drawing close to one another as they so often did in the summer months, and filled the small yard with enough light to make out the figure of Vemara sitting on a bench along the wall. Her eyes were fixed on one of the small trees, staring at the plant with an uncommon, though not unfamiliar, sadness.

“I thought you might be here,” Ebrisa said softly, trying to keep her voice from bouncing up the walls. “Vemara, its past curfew. You know better than this.”

The child frowned, slouching further into herself, but did not look away. “I know... but I miss the vhenadahl.”

Ebrisa sat on the bench beside the raven-haired girl, knowing the melancholy had nothing to do with the trees in elven alienages. “You'll get in trouble if a templar discovers you out of chambers.”

“I know...” Vemara pulled her legs up on the bench. “I just... I miss it...”

The young woman eased her down, directing Vemara's head to rest on her lap, and slowly stroked her hair. Ebrisa was unsure how she'd forgotten the date, the anniversary of the elf's first day in the Circle and her last day in the alienage. With a quiet inhale, she began to sing as her templar pursuer stood just outside the doorway.

“ _Now the sun has set, small one_

_Its time for you to dream._

_As I hold you in my arms_

_You can let your mind journey_.”

 

Vemara was eight now – by many accounts too old for lullabies – yet on nights when she was lonely or woke up from a bad dream she would ask Ebrisa to sing this. She had taught the tune to the older girl on the journey from Starkhaven and, after seeing so many die from blood magic, needed to hear it every night for months in order to fall asleep at all.

“ _And where will you go, small one,_

_As you're lost to me in sleep?_

_They are locked deep in your heart_

_The hidden lands you seek_.”

 

They learned from Feynriel that it was a Dalish lullaby, though his own mother had used the elven words, and once or twice he'd awkwardly sing the original language after much pleading from both Vemara and Ebrisa. He wasn't very good at it and Vemara preferred the common version in Ebrisa's voice. Still, it was sad that Feynriel didn't sing anymore.

“ _But never fear, small one,_

_For wherever you shall go,_

_My voice you can follow –_

_I will always call you home_ ,”

 

Vemara breathed deeply, solidly asleep, as Ebrisa lightly trailed her fingers over the child's cheek. It wasn't the vhenadahl or alienage or buildings that the girl missed. It was her mother.

“ _I will always call you home_.”

 

Ebrisa gently raised the elf into a sitting position and moved in front of her. She knelt and carefully pulled the small arms around her neck, looping her own arms under the girl's legs and wiggling a little to slip her from the bench. She took a steadying breath and pushed off from the ground, struggling so much with the weight that she almost fell over instantly.

“Andraste's flaming sword, Vemara. When did you get so big?” Ebrisa mumbled as she tried to adjust the sleeping child to a position that wouldn't kill her back.

“Breaking curfew is rather out of character for you, Trevelyan,” Cullen said in a low tone as he finally stepped into the yard.

She jumped just a little and scrambled to regain balance. “Yes, well... my roommate was missing and... I was concerned.”

“Regardless of reason, that earns you half a day of isolation.” Normally, he would look the other way as both apprentices were clearly not trying to escape or do anything unscrupulous, but he needed to take a step back from Trevelyan and treat her as just another mage – perhaps even harsher. It would likely do some good for the others to see her treated as such, and possibly dissuade some of the rumors that painted her in none too innocent a light. “Someone will fetch you after lessons tomorrow.”

Other mages who he had given similar orders to complained and argued, trying to plead their way out of punishment. He wasn't the least bit surprised when Ebrisa didn't. “Of course, Knight-Captain,” she replied while trying to mask the strain in her voice.

Cullen held back a sigh in an attempt to remain as stoic as possible. “I will carry the child.”

“That's alright, I can manage.” Ebrisa took a step, her arms and legs straining, then another. On the third step there was an audible snap and her face flushed with heat. “No, you're right. Please take her.” She refused to move, standing perfectly still as Cullen pulled the child from her back. As soon as Vemara was off, Ebrisa's arms flew to her chest in an attempt to catch her breast band, but the undergarment dropped to the ground. She prayed Cullen was too busy adjusting the sleeping elf against his torso to notice her bend down and snatch up the strap of linen and leather. The snapped bits of cording fell away as she balled up the fabric in her hand before crossing her arms over her chest once again.

The knight-captain cleared his throat and kept his eyes averted, unconsciously telling the mage that he had, in fact, seen exactly what happened. “Its just about time for shift change. We should get moving.”

Ebrisa nodded, not trusting her voice to say anything, and followed the man back to her quarters. They didn't speak the entire journey, Ebrisa too mortified by her garment's betrayal and Cullen trying to act professional, but both found the silence suffocating. After the child was deposited on her bed, the mage dared a few words.

“Thank you, Knight-Captain.” She smiled lightly and pulled the blanket over her roommate.

“Why didn't you call for someone to find her? It would have spared you from punishment.”

The mage rubbed her forehead and sighed softly. “I was concerned what might happen to her. I try to not give gossip any credence, but lately...” She hesitated, then turned fully to the templar and asked the question that had been circling nearly every apprentice's mind for weeks. “How much support does the Tranquil Solution have?”

He straightened a little, surprise evident on his face. “You know of that?”

“Honestly, I was rather hoping it was all a rumor...”

“It has been... discussed,” Cullen relented. “There are some who believe it is the only safe option, but they are the minority. The Harrowing has served us well enough for centuries and the knight-commander would not see us resort to such tactics.”

Ebrisa chewed on her lip, relieved that Meredith did not support the plan, but wanted to know where her second stood. “And... and your view on the matter? I do not wish to presume, but...”

This would be the perfect way to force distance between them. All Cullen had to do was claim support for Alrik's horrific plan and the mage would shift back to her stiff interactions, if not do her best to avoid him all together. Just a few words, and she would pull away in fear. It would be easy to do, but difficult to live with. For a little while, at least.

“The Rite of Tranquility is a mercy, a way to prevent needless mage deaths for hypothetical risks. Still, there is a great deal of unrest an argument can be made for applying it more widely.” He paused, mind wandering back to Fereldan for a moment. “It is not easy to contain a mage who truly wants to deal with demons. We have done our best...”

“Oh,” Ebrisa said the small word in an even smaller voice and in just that one syllable Cullen could feel the full weight of her disappointment. It hit him hard in the chest and he tried to swallow it down, accept the momentary discomfort. She raised her eyes and he braced for the fear or anger he would see there, but was completely unprepared for the resignation. “I understand. It is a dangerous thing to leave to chance.”

All he had to do was walk away. Just step through the doorway and leave and whatever image the mage had of him would be shattered. The man of character who cared about his men, who was kind and clever... The person who had laughed more around her than around anyone else since getting to Kirkwall.

Or maybe her image of him would stay, but that of herself would diminish. She held so fast to Chantry law that if the Tranquil Solution did gain the Divine's approval, he feared Ebrisa would be first in line to undergo it. The thought of her willingly submitting and losing all she is filled Cullen with dread. Protocol be damned, he could not let that happen.

“Which is why we remain vigilant and utilize the Harrowing. Only if a mage proves weak in mind, will, or faith is such drastic action needed.” He watched the young woman's eyes light up in the dim room and held back a smile at the reaction.

“That is comforting to know, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen nodded and headed for the door. “And try to remind the _small one_ that falling asleep in the yard well before curfew is behavior befitting a child younger than herself. A shame none of the templars found her in time to prevent you going out searching.”

Ebrisa blushed in embarrassment, realizing that he had heard her sing at least a little of the lullaby. She also noted Cullen had elected to not interrupt as she lulled the girl to sleep and was forgoing punishing Vemara for breaking curfew as well. A warm, bright smile spread across her face and she giggled just a tiny bit. “I'll tell her. Sleep well, Knight-Captain.”

He hummed a reply and quickly left, feeling his heart pounding in his chest and face flush as he made his way to his own quarters. His mind scrambled for some sort of excuse for the sensations, but nothing came even remotely close. The idea of her being scared of him was difficult, the thought of her being Tranquil made him ill, the weight of her disappointment crushed his chest, and - worst of all - the sight of her tonight quickened his pulse.

It was obvious that her breast band had come off, being able to plainly see the unbound shape of her chest through the thin layer of clothing, the unmistakeable sway as she moved, but his templar training had enabled him to mostly ignore that. He had seen and it was definitely burned into his memory now, but it wasn't what heated his skin and drove thought from his mind. It was the sparkling trust in her eyes and the dazzling, melting brightness of her smile. Cullen knew then that he would not be able to drive the mage away because he didn't want to do anything to diminish the warmth of her expression. The only way to not fraternize with Ebrisa was to simply avoid her. He refused to acknowledge it, but hidden deep in a closed off section of his heart, he knew he was going to have trouble doing that, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ebrisa is singing "Mir Da'len Somniar". I adjusted the 'common' words to rhyme and flow with this fan cover in mind.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zl3CmzQY1So


	10. Lilies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the first day of the second month, so...  
> Happy Wintersend, everyone!  
> Go check on your family and make sure they survived the cold months alright.

Alrik was dead, killed in the lowest levels of the Gallows, and the Tranquil Solution died with him. He had taken a contingent of men in pursuit of a single apprentice and every one of them had perished. Records indicated the girl, Ella, wouldn't have been able to take down a single templar, let alone the dozen that tried to bring her in, but her body was not among the dead, and with no witness to the crime they would have to act under the assumption that she had managed the feat. Meredith handed Ella's phylactery to Ser Karras and trusted the matter would be swiftly dealt with.

“She just wanted to see her mother,” Edan muttered during supper the day everything came to light. “Ella was convinced her parents didn't know where she was, because they would have come to visit otherwise.” He pushed his food around and scowled at the meal. “She didn't seem the type to run...”

“We can never truly know another person's mind, Edan.” Ebrisa let out a soft sigh and looked around the dinning hall at the groups huddling around their tables. “Many are scared because of Ser Alrik's plan, but it was only _his_ plan. Sometimes it takes fear to reveal what is in someone's heart.”

Vemara stabbed an carrot slice with her fork and shot a toothy grin across the table at the boy. “He's upset because Ella's his girlfriend.”

“She is not, you wee nyaff!” Edan tore off a small piece of his roll and chucked it at the elf.

“Crabbit!” Vemara shot back. She smirked at the incredulous look the boy gave her before explaining. “Alain taught me some of your dumb Starkhaven words.”

Ebrisa stretched forward and held her hand between the two. “That's enough. _Both_ of you.” She gave them each a stern look before resting back on the bench. “Serrah Ella seems a sweet girl. If she truly did just want to see her parents, then I'm sure she will turn herself in. Perhaps the knight-commander will not treat her so harshly if she explains what happened in the tunnels.” The idea that someone – or _something_ – could slaughter an entire search party within the Gallows very walls was an uncomfortable one and none would be truly safe while the murderer ran free.

 

A few days later it came to an end. According to Ser Karras' report, Ella and her family were found trying to flee the city, a clear sign of guilt. When questioned about Alrik and his men, Ella rambled on about a demon of blue fire with a booming voice and how it had tried to kill her too. She remembered that the demon was with others, but the memory was distorted by fear and she couldn't give any descriptions. An abomination, it would seem, had found its way into the lower tunnels.

The patrols in the passageway were doubled, Ella's family were given to the guard, and the girl was brought back to the Circle. There was little debate over her punishment and soon Ella was branded and began training for formari tasks. It was no secret how Karras felt about runaways and the fact that Ella yet lived was seen as a mercy by some and things seemed to calm. In the quiet corners of the halls, however, anger burned as hot as ever. The mages would not give up their dreams of freedom and fairness, but they would no longer act so openly or alone.

~~~~~~~~  
The Chantry service ended with a rather moving testimony by Sister Etheline and Meredith made her way over to the Grand Cleric for yet another discussion about the Qunari. She would rather not have forced the issue on All Soul's Day, but Elthina was giving her little choice by dodging the knight-commander the past several times she had tried to speak with her. The templars fanned out along the entry hall and awaited Meredith, leaving their mage charge to her usual post-service quiet time. Ebrisa gazed over at the confessionals and chewed on her bottom lip, running things over in her head.

“I do hope you aren't considering going in there.”

She turned to the voice, recognizing the rolling burr from only a few months ago. “You will be glad to know I have taken your advice, Brother.” Ebrisa bowed her head respectfully as she looked at the man. He was not in the gleaming armor he wore last time nor Chantry robes, but a rather simple tunic and breeches. They were tailored well and of fine material, but lacked the embellishments most of the other men in Hightown seemed so fond of. It struck her as odd at first, then she recalled something Hawke had said. “Or should I not address you as such, messere?”

“You may still do so, but an exchange of names would also be welcomed, Miss...?”

“Ebrisa Trevelyan, messere.” She took hold of her skirt and dipped straight down into as proper a curtsey as the robes would allow her to move.

He narrowed his eyes just a bit and hummed as she rose. “Sebastian Vael,” he offered while following her lead and giving a courtly bow. When he returned to his previous upright position, he saw the shock that normally appeared after he included his title. This time he did not need to.

“Of Starkhaven,” Ebrisa mumbled before her hand flew to her flushed cheek. “Your Highness, forgive my impertinence. I should have recognized you from eyes and voice alone.”

“Oh?” Sebastian looked her over again. “I have not been a lord of Starkhaven for many years.”

She hesitated, then shook her head and continued. “I do not expect you to remember myself, but surely the Summer Ball in Ostwick leaves a lasting impression.”

The Vaels attended many balls and grand parties and in his younger years Sebastian recalled being dragged to several as his brothers were paraded around and his parents searched for prospective allies. Allies in way of future spouses for his brothers that would strengthen the family politically, that is. The Summer Ball in Ostwick was hosted by a Lucille Trevelyan, if he remembered correctly.

The name sparked a flood of memories and he starred at the mage as if seeing her for the first time. “The little Lady Ebrisa, but of course!” He laughed lightly and tilted his head. “You'll forgive me for not seeing you as the wain trailing behind her siblings like a shadow, I hope.”

“Not at all, my lord.” She smiled and let out a small giggle. “Aurelia was terribly distraught when she learned you were sent to the Chantry, though I believe Mother was far more devastated.”

Sebastian winced. “Ah, yes, Aurelia. I remember her as well. She was hardly a subtle one.”

“You were aware of her intentions?” Ebrisa furrowed her brow in confusion. “I was fairly young and may be forgetting something, but I recall you being rather aloof with her.”

“Just because I recognize something doesn't mean I should reciprocate it.” He smirked at a memory. “I feel I can admit now that I used you as a shield from her on more than one occasion when I saw her approach me on the dance floor.”

Ebrisa brought the back of her hand to her mouth and laughed, the sound ringing through the emptying apse. “I did find it strange that a prince would dance with a child half his size when perfectly suitable partners of matching height where available.” She directed her twinkling eyes at his own and couldn't help the smirk on her lips. “I'll have you know that my sister wouldn't speak to me for an entire month after you took my hand instead of hers.”

“Oh my,” Sebastian chuckled. “Was she jealous?”

“Immensely, but I could hardly blame her.” The mage laughed again, quieter this time. “After all, what little girl doesn't want to be a princess?”

He quirked a brow, amusement evident in his voice. “Even you?”

“Even me.” She blushed faintly from the admission, then cleared her throat in an attempt to ride her cheeks of the brightness. “Childhood fantasies rarely keep, however, and my magic presented itself shortly after you were given to the Chantry. I'm certain you are honoring your family far better than I am.”

A shadow passed over Sebastian's face and he shifted his gaze to the remembrance wall. “Honoring their memory, perhaps. I am uncertain if my recent actions would have made them proud.”

“Their memory?” Ebrisa echoed in a soft, questioning voice. She thought back to Sebastian's earlier conversation when he had tried to help her come to terms with Feynriel's fate. A demon corrupted a family friend... that friend did terrible things... for power. The gasp that escaped her was louder than she intended and her hands flew to her mouth in an attempt to mask the level of her shock and horror as she understood.

“Three years ago, every last member of the ruling family was slain by mercenaries.” He released a single puff of bitter laughter. “Save yours truly.”

His parents, his brothers and their wives, his little nieces and nephews... all of them gone. The Gallows were rarely privy to news or politics from outside Kirkwall and for this to have happened when it did... the slaughter must have occurred just after the Starkhaven Circle burned and she was sent away. The thought struck her suddenly that if Aurelia had gotten her wish and wed one of the Vael brothers, she would be dead right now. The idea of her sister being gone and not knowing for years made Ebrisa feel hollow. The pain she felt for the hypothetical loss of a single family member when Sebastian was standing right before her as the last of his own filled her with shame, then an overwhelming sadness.

Before she realized what she was doing, the mage wrapped her arms around him in a comforting embrace, trapping his own arms at his side. “I am so, so sorry, my Lord Sebastian. I know these words bring little comfort, but I am pained by your loss and theirs. May they walk in peace at the Maker's side, never again to know the burdens of this world.”

“Are you finished, Trevelyan?” Meredith asked wryly, not more than three paces behind the mage. “We must return to the Circle.”

Ebrisa jumped a little and moved away from the noble, too mortified by her lack of decorum to stutter out an apology. To her relief, Sebastian offered her a grateful smile and nodded. “Thank you, Lady Ebrisa. Maker guide your steps.”

She returned the smile and curtseyed before turning to the knight-commander and heading back to the island fortress.  
~~~~~~~~~  
While most knew Ella had run to see her family, others suspected another's hand at work once again. The girl had made her suspicions of Ebrisa no secret, warning others away as she had tried to do with Edan, and the idea that the blonde had acted against her was not so far fetched to those who already feared her. These whispers joined the others, drifting from dark corners where the speakers could not be detected and Ebrisa continued to do her best to ignore them. The bite of them had lessened, as the mage did not feel at all responsible for Ella's actions or state.

With the distance others dealt her, Ebrisa was outright surprised to find a vase of white lilies sitting on her side of the desk when she returned to her quarters after assisting Berenice. Vemara sat at the other side of the planked surface working on an assignment her mentor had given her, quill scratching over her notes as her face twisted in concentration.

“Vemara, where did these flowers come from?” Normally Ebrisa wouldn't have interrupted, but the sight was so strange it had to be addressed.

“Didn't you bring them from the garden?” The elf replied without looking up.

“No, the ones I planted were crushed months ago...” The blonde gently caressed a petal, knowing full well that the white would normally be dotted with brown spots so late in the season. There was a faint thrum of lyrium in the flowers, something she had read about that preserved plants after cutting to elongate their usefulness. Normally such tricks were used on herbs or other helpful greenery, but it did stand to reason that floral merchants could employ the technique to keep their wares in prime condition longer. It wasn't a spell per se, and didn't violate any Chantry law but Ebrisa felt there was something innately wrong about trying to restore life to a long dead flower.

“Maybe the person who crushed it felt bad and wanted to replace them,” Vemara said while soaking more ink up the quill barrel.

“Maybe...” Ebrisa hummed and picked up the vase. “Still, it means someone came into our room while we were gone.” The idea did not sit well with her.

“Must have been a templar then. They can go anywhere,” the elf reasoned. “Maybe one likes you.”

The blonde nearly dropped the flowers, ceramic container and all, as she snapped her attention to the child. “Wha- that – Vemara, you don't know what you're saying! Templars can't like mages – there are rules against that sort of thing.”

The girl rested her chin in her hand, narrowly missing dotting her nose with ink. “Rules on feelings? That's silly.”

Ebrisa tightened her grip on the vase, the detailed etching pressing into her fingertips. “No, it's necessary. Templars have to stay vigilant, stay in control. They can't be our friends...” She felt a tightness rise in her throat as she spoke, knowing what she was saying was the truth, but at the same time knowing she had done much to undermine it. Ebrisa's knuckles had grown white from her clutching as she stared at the lilies in her hands. “They can't be. You'll understand when you're older.”

“Really?” Vemara turned to the young woman fully, frowning in confusion. “If you truly believe that, then why do you look so sad?”

Ebrisa's feigned laughter cut through the air as she glanced up from the flowers. “Me? Sad? Don't be silly.” The blonde moved for the door, her grip loosening slightly. “I bet you're right though, about these being replacements. I'll go put them in the yard. Be right back.” Ebrisa heard an unconvinced hum from behind her as she walked away, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the whirlwind of dangerous thoughts and emotions Vemara had so innocently knocked loose.  
She followed the rules, did as she was told, but could not maintain the distance with her guardians as she should. Meredith had shown great faith in her, allowing her much freedom to both tend to superficial aesthetics of the Gallows and selfish desires of her soul with her yearly Chantry service. Many of the knights would engage Ebrisa in small talk and assist her a little in her tasks, few as bold as Ser Carver to actually pick her up when she needed help, but enough to warrant concern that she was swaying them from their true mission. Then there was the knight-captain. Oh, the number of lines she had crossed with him...

It was all accidental at first, stumbling into circumstances that forced him into action, putting them in situations that never would have happened if she were more competent or capable. Cullen had met each issue with the expected strength and diligence of a templar, but always followed up his actions with a surprising hint of concern. He worked hard to mask it, because he knew the rules just as well as she did, and he could not let his guard down. Ebrisa respected it, understood it fully, and tried her best to match his level of professionalism, but then he laughed.

She hadn't meant to make it happen the first time, but she was so glad when it did. It gave her a glimpse at the man behind the sun shield, and then he was gone, retreated back inside his armor of duty and responsibility, and she wondered how often Cullen saw that man himself. After that, she went out of her way to help him find that person, to remind him he was not an unthinking sword of the Chantry. Ebrisa would like to believe she was helping with each line she crossed, each rule she bent ever so gently to lighten the shadows in his amber eyes. It was taking less and less effort to draw him into a true conversation, to share a moment of honest companionship, but her chances of doing so were now scarce.

When she dragged him – actually took hold of his arm and pulled him behind her – to an evening service in the Gallows' meager chapel, Ebrisa knew she was acting well outside of what was proper. She was pleased when he did her the courtesy of staying for a little while, but her soul cried out when the templar joined in the Chant. He was unsteady at first, uncertain, but the doubt soon vanished and he fell into an easy harmony with her. Ebrisa was ashamed to admit it to herself when she thought back on it later, but when Cullen added his voice to the room, she could hear no others. It was only them, sitting beside one another in a duet of faith and her heart had never known such peace or warmth. All too soon, it was gone. His voice was gone. He was gone.

Much as her peers avoided her in the corridors and she pretended to not notice, she'd catch a glimpse of Cullen turn sharply and change direction before their paths had a chance to cross. This hurt she struggled with a great deal more. It was her own fault, she knew, for acting where it was not her place to do so and force herself into Cullen's private issues. When he was unable to avoid her presence, he displayed a harder guard of indifference and she feared her actions to help had pushed the man in the opposite direction. But he showed her just the tiniest bit of hope that she hadn't failed and that spark ignited a fire in her chest, causing her to brighten with a true smile.

Despite the lines she had crossed, her efforts for Cullen had taken hold at least a little.

That was another thing. Although she was always respectful when addressing her betters, the man was no longer _Knight-Captain_ in her mind. When she thought of him, which occurred at an improper frequency, he was _Cullen_. Perhaps she had already broken that rule.

 

The Templar Hall was its usual calm, the soldiers knowing better than to cause a ruckus so near their commander's office, and Ebrisa was given a few polite nods as she passed the sentries and made her way to the yard. Though she was given leave to wander unescorted, an older templar froze as she walked by him and the mage prepared for a reprimand.

“You!” The man turned around, forcing the mage to turn as well. “Where did you get those white lilies?”

She blinked at the question, having expected the conversation to go in an entirely different direction. “Ser Emeric?” When the man continued to stare at her expectantly, she completed her answer. “They were in my room and-”

Emeric cut her off. “Your _room_?”

“I was going to put them-”

“Did you see who delivered them?” The templar had closed the space between them, features tight as he inspected the flowers.

“No, but-” Ebrisa was once again stopped from giving a full answer as the man grabbed her arm.

“Come with me.” Emeric's grip was near painful, encompassing her entire wrist with his gauntlet. “ _Now_.” He pulled her along, the vase dropping from her hands and crashing loudly on the stone floor, splashing the water and bruising the carefully preserved white petals.

~~~~~~~~  
Night fell and still Emeric paced the small Lowtown home he'd dragged Ebrisa to hours ago. He kept repeating over and over that the Circle was no longer safe for her and that he wouldn't let another mage fall to the murderer under his watch. His insistence only served to frighten the girl the more he said it, each armored step in the dirty room matching the thundering of her heart.

“Messere Hawke should be here soon,” he whispered while peaking through the crack in the door. “She has been assisting me with this investigation. The only other person in all of Kirkwall to understand the truth of these killings...” Emeric turned from the door and looked at the mage, but not seeing her. “Don't worry, Mharen. We will keep you safe.”

“Ser Emeric, I don't-”

He held up a hand to silence her, looking through the crack once again as he peered into the night. “Someone is coming. Stay put a moment.” The templar withdrew his blade and slipped out the door, shutting it softly behind himself.

Ebrisa clutched her fingers in her robes to keep them still, straining to make out anything beyond the pulse pounding in her ears. There was a voice, Emeric perhaps, then some... sort of... growling. She was so fixated on the sound of fighting flooding the run down building that the mage failed to notice the door opening until it was slammed against the wall. A startled cry caught in her throat as a silhouetted figure lunged at her, shoving a rag against her mouth and holding it there.

Her struggling became weaker, her limbs becoming lead as she tried to push the definitely male, definitely not templar away. The attacker seemed satisfied with her now boneless state and hoisted her over his shoulder like an old rug. He took her from the building, but the moonlit back ally seemed to only darken as they moved through it. Ebrisa could just barely make out Emeric fighting far too many creatures before sight and sound abandoned her entirely.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things.  
> Since this is my AU and Ebrisa was a high-society girl, I reasoned it made perfect sense for her to interact with Sebastian when she was little. He tried to put a lot of his past behind him, which is why he doesn't remember someone from twelve years ago instantly. A little nudge was all he needed to get things tumbling out.  
> I always thought Emeric seemed a little lyrium addled, which is why he fixated on the serial killings so much.  
> Please don't be too upset with me for how I proceed with the 'All That Remains' plot. It is a dark and heart-breaking quest and I am trying to do right by Leandra with it.


	11. Phylactery

Ebrisa awoke to the smell of decay, dirt, and mold with a strange tanginess in her mouth. She moaned and turned over, finding herself on a moth-eaten duvet in the middle of a four-poster bed. Her vision slowly expanded beyond a few feet as harsh whispers cut through the silence.

“Are you awake yet?” A gray-haired woman hissed from across the almost room. “ _Please,_ you must help me!”

The mage focused her foggy mind on the older woman, noting the ropes around her wrists and ankles. She pulled herself from the creaky bed, stumbling to the floor with the lingering heaviness of her legs. “What happened?” Her voice was dry and words a bit slurred, but the woman's shrill plea ignored the oddities entirely.

“Hurry! Before he comes back!”

Ebrisa wobbled as quickly as she could, forgoing further attempts at asking questions. She could figure out where she was and what had happened once the apparent prisoner was freed.

Scuffling footsteps drew her attention from the other woman, announcing the presence of a rather smug looking man. He was clean shaven with creases at his eyes and mouth telling his age as much as the silver color of his hair. “Now, now, Alessa. You shouldn't have woken her up.” The man quickly crossed the space and knelt down beside the bound woman, his mended robes shifting around with the action. “You could have had so much more time if you'd only left her alone.”

The woman looked up at him with wide, fear filled eyes. “Please. You said you found a better face. You said you wouldn't use me,” Alessa whimpered. “I swear I won't say anything.”

“Oh? Like how you didn't run to the guard about Gascard?” The man shook his head. “You are correct though, I will not use your face.”

Alessa panted out a sigh of relief, closing her eyes. “Thank you, messere. Thank you.”

He brandished a blade, small and meticulously engraved with runes. With his free hand, he pushed the woman's head back, exposing her neck. “You have other uses.” The blade slid across her flesh in an almost graceful motion, the action fluid from repetition.

Ebrisa screamed as the blood bubbled from Alessa's fatal wound, but did not flow as it should have. The red droplets surrounded the blade and its wielder, crackling with energy as it bestowed him with power. He rose to his feet, absorbing the woman's essence with a frightening calm.

“Maleficar...” Ebrisa whispered, flashes of Decimus overtaking their Starkhaven escorts running through her mind. That power had come from his own blood, limited in its use so that the caster would live, but what sort of horrors could this older – obviously more experienced – blood mage do with Alessa's entire life force at his disposal?

He turned to her, a gentle smile on his calm face as his eyes flashed with a dark light. Ebrisa felt a muggy presence surround her body, pulsing strangely before the humid sensation seeped into her skin as foreign chanting echoed in her head. “This must all be terribly confusing. Why don't you lie back down and I'll explain everything.”

Without thought, against her own wishes, Ebrisa returned to the bed and settled into the same position she'd woken up in. “What is this? Why-”

“Hush,” he cut her off and the rest of her words faltered. “I've only a little time before I must head out, so listen well. It's important you understand.” The man settled himself on the edge of the lumpy mattress, like he was about to tell her a bedtime story. “My name is Quentin and I hail from Starkhaven's Circle of Magi. My wife had become very ill and we fled in hopes of finding a cure, but alas, nothing worked. Templars came upon us, my beloved too weak to run anymore, and she perished. They took her from me, gave her to the funeral pyre, and robbed me the chance of seeing her again.”

Quentin sighed and lowered his head. “I could not let that stand. I had to have my beloved in my arms once more, and the Maker gave me a vision of how to do so.” His eyes lifted to a painting on the wall, a blissful expression on his face. “I would find parts of her hiding in others and bring the pieces back into the rightful whole form. Don't you see? I'm on a mission from the Maker, a mission of love. This sort of task could not be rushed. Perfection takes its time, but I am almost there.”

Ebrisa stared at him, her eyes being the only thing she seemed to have control over at the moment. He was mad – had to be – and the young woman was uncertain if he had fallen to blood magic because of it or if he'd always been a maleficar. The name Quentin did sound slightly familiar, a templar or two mentioning him to each other before the fire burned her old Circle, so at least one aspect of his tale was not a delusion. Still, collecting pieces of the whole? What had he meant by that? What did he need _her_ for?

He patted her leg - the apprentice realizing with a shot of panic that while she could not move her body, she could still feel everything - and stood up. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Go ahead and sleep until I return.”

And with only that Ebrisa found herself dreaming in the Fade.

~~~~~~~~  
Ebrisa snapped awake, feeling a presence at her side, and stared up to find Quentin standing over her with that same smugness he had the first time she saw him. “Such a good girl. I had trouble with the mage who had my love's hands, but binding you is working out so well. I should thank Alessa for her contribution next time I pass the front room.”

He pulled a barely conscious woman forward and tied her hands to one of the bed posts. “Ebrisa, would you scoot over and make room? We must take care of the final piece for the vessel.” The young mage slid across the blanket, allowing Quentin to guide the older woman to the mattress. He secured her feet to the post opposite her hands and nodded, satisfied the restraints would hold. “I have preparations to make, so if you'll excuse me.”

Once the man was gone, Ebrisa fought against the wicked magic holding her, hoping it would weaken in his absence. For all her struggling, all the mental energy she tried to call upon, she couldn't even manage a grunt. It terrified her to have no control over her actions, to be at the mercy of a man who had yet to display any, and to be tainted by dark power. She wondered the limits of his manipulation, if he could make her use her own magic against others. She wondered if this was what it was like to be possessed, to be an abomination. She wondered if anyone would be able to tell the difference.

The woman beside her stirred more, shaking the fog from her head as she tried to move. “Maker's blood, what is this?” She tugged at the ropes, kicking her tethered legs as her fingers tried to examine whatever bit of knot they could reach. She paused when she bumped into Ebrisa, turning her head to regard the unbound girl. “What's going on? Do you know?”

She did. Sort of.

“My name is Leandra. Can you tell me yours?”

She couldn't. Oh, Maker, to be able to speak or move even a little.

“The last thing I can remember is a man falling over asking for help... is he here?”

At least he had taken a less violent approach in bringing Leandra. When Quentin took her, he... oh. Ser Emeric... Ser Emeric was surely dead, killed by shades because he tried to protect her. He was better than that. Ser Emeric deserved a better fate than dying in a dirty back alley alone for a single apprentice mage he only knew on paper. He shouldn't have put himself in harm's way like that...

“Hey now, its alright,” Leandra said in a calm, soothing voice and only then did Ebrisa realize she was crying. “Don't you worry. Someone will come.” The older woman sounded so confident that the mage felt hope begin to blossom in her chest. “I visit my brother on this day every week and when I don't show, he'll start looking. My daughter has friends all over the city – in the guard even – and they're sure to find us.” She smiled reassuringly. “My girl will come. I'm certain someone is looking for you, too.”

Ebrisa's eyes widened as a thought struck her. The Gallows had her phylactery, and with her being gone for – Maker, it had to be at least morning – gone for so long, Meredith would have sent out a hunting party by now. They could track her and then an entire squad of templars would come bursting in and take down the maleficar. They would be prepared for a fight, not taken by surprise like Starkhaven's men, and Quentin would not be able to escape.

The templars would come. Cullen would make sure of it.

Leandra hummed. “I see you've got a rescuer in mind.”

The mage felt her cheeks heat. It wasn't like that, she had only thought about Cullen because he was in charge of the others, but then why hadn't she imagined Meredith?

“Picturing a dashing gentleman suitor of yours?” Leandra chuckled a little. “I hope you haven't read too many romance novels. I'd feel rather uncomfortable if your imagination got carried away while I'm so close.”

It wasn't improper, per se, to imagine Cullen storming in with a squad of templars, not outside the realm of possibility that he could land the killing blow on Quentin or rush to her side. It was unlikely, but there was a chance that the first thing she could do after being freed of the blood magic was wrap her arms around him. Her heart beat faster in her chest as she pictured it, feeling safe again with his presence enveloping her. Cullen made her feel safe...

Leandra chuckled again, taking in the heavy blush on the mage's face. “Feel a bit better now?We just need to believe in those who care for us.”

Ebrisa did believe in Cullen, but doubted any concern he felt was greater than that for his other charges or that it matched the level Leandra spoke of. She tried to tell her fellow captive, but the power binding her simultaneously squelched the embarrassment and the surge of hope.

What if the blood magic that was holding her affected her own blood's essence? What if the phylactery would no longer respond? Templars hunt down mages without the enchantment as often as with, so they could still find her and Messere Leandra, it would just take longer. Did they have that sort of time?  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The city guard had discovered Ser Emeric's body in Lowtown that morning and while the templars were still preparing to begin the investigation, it was reported that a mage was missing. The logical explanation was that the mage had fled and Emeric pursued, despite doing so solo was against regulations for just this very reason.

While questioning those on sentry duty yesterday in an attempt to figure out a time table, it came out that Emeric had left the Gallows with the mage in tow, claiming he was acting under orders from the knight-commander. Meredith quickly denied involvement and the next logical explanation was the senior templar was under the influence of blood magic. That was the expected answer, the one they came to an alarmingly frequent amount of time, but in this case it only set off warning bells for the knight-captain.

Normally he would agree with the majority on such a matter and err on the side of caution, believing that the escaped mage was hostile and possibly corrupted, but it was too far-fetched an idea to accept. Not Ebrisa. Cullen dug further into the matter, speaking with her young roommate in a silent defense of the missing mage.

“She was supposed to come back, Knight-Captain, ser,” Vemara began worriedly. “Ebrisa said she was going to put the flowers in the yard and be _right back_.”

“Flowers?” He stared down at the child, seeing the genuine concern and fear in her round eyes.

She nodded emphatically. “They were in our room after lessons and we didn't know where they came from.”

That bit of information jogged loose something he had overheard at supper last night. Moira had complained about cleaning up a broken vase outside Meredith's office, but bragged about being able to save one of the lilies for her quarters. If Ebrisa had orchestrated the escape, she wouldn't have left evidence in such an obvious place. That meant it was Emeric's idea, and it had happened rather suddenly. But for what reason would he do such a thing? Its true that he was getting on in years, the lyrium showing its wear more often in the past several months. It was one of the reasons why he was given easier assignments and why he was allowed to play detective for so long. Emeric's investigation into the serial killer kept his mind occupied and sharp, but when he saw patterns where none existed and resorted to outright slander against nobles in the city, he was pulled back. It may be he was further gone than they knew.

Cullen hesitated in telling anyone his theory, knowing it would bring his own judgment into question, perhaps even drag his views of the missing mage forward. He liked to think he'd been careful and not crossed any lines, but the fact of the matter was he had been overly friendly with Ebrisa and if others suspected his fraternization, Meredith would pull him from the search if not worse. With the suspicions leveled against the mage, Cullen was not confident that she would make it back to the Gallows alive if he was not there when they found her.

The elf child's concerned words circulated in Cullen's head as he arranged the search party – refusing to call it a _hunt_ like Karras and Mettin were. Meredith and Orsino took him to the deepest levels of the prison, once the most secure cell for the especially dangerous, and now the phylactery vault. It took a key and from each leader to open the final door and the pair waited at the entrance as Cullen ventured inside the magically light room. He approached the rack of apprentice vials, trailing his eyes over the glass until he found the one he needed. Taking Ebrisa's phylactery carefully in hand, he exited the room and waited for it to be resealed.

Orsino charged the lyrium in the blood, activating the enchantment and setting the liquid to glow. “Not too faint,” the First-Enchanter murmured. “The girl is still within the city.”

“Then we must act quickly to ensure she does not wander further.” Meredith shut and locked each door behind them as they headed back up through the levels. “Cullen, I am entrusting this task to you. See that she is found and brought back before more death occurs.”

Cullen noted her careful selection of words, realizing that she did not wish the mage killed either. Perhaps she had her own doubts. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”  
~~~~~~~~~  
After a few hours, Quentin returned to the room with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a butcher apron tied neatly around his form. “And we are ready for you at last, Leandra.” He paused at the angry red rope burns around the woman's wrists and sighed. “How fortunate Mharen already did her part, or I would be very cross right now.”

Ebrisa recalled the name. Emeric had called her by it earlier... did that mean the templar was right all along? This crazed mage has been capturing and killing women for years with the guard none the wiser?

“I couldn't care less how cross you are,” Leandra spat, trying to use bravado to mask her lack of physical strength. Struggling against her restraints for so long had worn her out immensely.

“You wound me.” Quentin untied her feet from the post but maintained the knots keeping them lashed together. “You are about to become part of something far greater. You should feel honored by this.” Her wrists came loose and before he had a chance to grab the looped binding, Leandra swung her fists at his head, staggering him.

She kicked off her shoe and slipped a foot free, scrambling off the bed and rushing across the dirt floor. “Come on, child! Quickly!” Leandra glanced over her shoulder, startled to see Ebrisa in exactly the same place. “I-I'll find help,” she stuttered as she recovered and faced forward again. A tug on the trailing rope still secured to an ankle stole her balance and she plummeted to the floor, her arms coming up barely in time to soften the fall.

“Oh, what have I done!” Quentin was at her side in an instant, rolling her over to survey the damage. He sighed in relief, caressing her cheek. “It is unharmed. How devastating that would have been to ruin your face when I am so close.”

“Even if I can't escape on my own, my daughter will come!” Leandra twisted away from his hand. “You won't get away with this. With _any_ of this!”

“Such faith you have in her, yet you've been in my care all day and no one has arrived.” Quentin hoisted Leandra back to her feet and dragged her through the room. He stopped, then turned back to the bed and smiled. “Ebrisa, come join us, won't you?”

The blonde slid off the bed and followed the man to another room down the tight corridor. The scent of decay was much stronger in this room, masked only by the overwhelming smell of blood and filled with low, metal tables fitted with grooves for draining. She'd seen their like before when she wandered into the section of the Chantry where they prepared the dead for the pyre and that association sparked the thought that the bulges covered in dirty linen on some of the tables were corpses. There was one table that stood apart from the rest, the metal not only clean but polished and the sheet draping over the hidden mass a delicate lace.

Quentin pulled Leandra onto one of the empty tables, grunting against her struggling. “Ebrisa, come secure the restraints and pay attention. This one continues to be defiant.”

Her feet moved her forward until she stood opposite Quentin at the table where he held down the fighting woman. The leather strap found its way into Ebrisa's hand and she secured the buckle across Leandra's waist as her mind screamed to stop, pleaded that it be her first so Leandra's daughter had more time to come save her. She could feel the tears flowing down her face as the other straps closed around the victim. When the final buckle locked in place around Leandra's shoulders, their eyes met.

The woman smiled at her, once again trying to be reassuring and calm the crying girl. Leandra had no way of knowing what was going on with Ebrisa, why she was helping the maleficar, but her mother's intuition told her that the girl was just as much a prisoner as she was, just as trapped and scared. “It'll be alright. They'll come.”

“Not soon enough to be of any help to you, I'm afraid.” Quentin pulled out his engraved dagger and with the accuracy of an assassin, stabbed it deep into the woman's heart. Leandra gasped in pain, gulping in air before letting out a dwindling scream as the man pulled the power from her blood. He began to recite a long stream of words, some lines in Tevene and others in Nevarran, as he took hold of a smaller, sharper blade and carefully worked it through Leandra's neck, layer by layer.

Ebrisa tried to keep her eyes shut, to block out the sight, but Quentin had told her to pay attention and she was forced to witness his task. She could do no more than blink and shift her gaze away, but no matter where she looked the slow decapitation remained in her peripheral vision. She could do nothing but stand and watch and cry. Words could not pass her lips, but they raced in her head too quickly to make any sense of as she tried to figure out why any of this was happening.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide me through the blackest nights._

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked._

_Make me to rest in the warmest of places._

 

She could not sing the Chant aloud as her heart ached to do, provide some comfort to Leandra's departing being, but she hoped her own spirit might be able to touch the woman's and find some peace in its violent death.  
~~~~~~~~~~  
The phylactery had lead them to the middle of an empty yard in the construction district. It dimmed as Cullen stepped away from the spot, meaning Ebrisa was directly underneath, and the templars began searching for access hatches that would take them to the whatever part of the undercity they needed. They had been at it for hours, taking passageways that lead to dead ends or took them further from the mage and Karras was losing patience.

“Knight-Captain, we need to split up to comb the area properly. What's the point in bringing so many men if we all clomp around together?”

He was right, of course, and Cullen could no longer act on the hope that the mage would be found peacefully. Night had already fallen and they were running the risk of encountering bandits and angry anti-templar groups. “Very well.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose briefly before pointing at a section of the group. “You three, come with me. The rest of you, follow Lieutenant Karras. The knight-commander has ordered Trevelyan be brought in alive, so do not let the loss of Ser Emeric speed your blade out of hand.”

Cullen and the smaller group walked down another alley, trying to find a space they had not yet searched. He kept the phylactery in hand, watching for any change in the glow, any shift in the faint warmth emanating from the vial. The fact that the enchantment still worked afforded him the small comfort that the mage was yet alive, at least.

“There! More blood,” Hawke called out as she came rushing around the corner with Aveline, Anders, and Sebastian. She skidded to a stop, looking at the group of templars with confusion before her eyes settled on her brother.

“What sort of nonsense have you gotten mixed up in now?” Carver moaned as he cut through the others.

Hawke latched onto his arm, staring up into his eyes with a fear she hadn't displayed since Bethany was grabbed by that ogre. “Mother's been taken! The Kirkwall Killer has Mother!”

“Slow down,” the man held up a hand, trying to register his normally composed sister's frantic words. “What's happened?”

It was Aveline that answered, falling into guard-captain mode to keep her focus. “The murderer Ser Emeric was after is very much real. He sent Leandra white lilies this morning – his calling card.” She turned to Cullen, stoic frown in place. “If you're out here looking for Emeric's killer, our goal is one in the same.”

“He sends...” Cullen's fingers wrapped protectively around the glass in his hand. “You're certain about the flowers? Trevelyan had also...”

Aveline nodded and explained that her guard were canvasing the area, but her group had been following the blood trail an urchin child directed them to. Hawke and Carver were each trying to reassure the other that they would find and save their mother while Anders did his best to bite his tongue in the templars presence.

All through that, the knight-captain's mind was reeling. Emeric's imagined serial killer was real and the templar snatched Ebrisa from the Circle to try and hide her, to keep her safe. The killer had been operating for years, sneaking by everyone but a single man no one wanted to believe. No one except Hawke, and now look what happened.

Cullen straightened and turned to the rest of his men. “We will go with them. Perhaps their trail will lead us to the entrance that's been eluding us.”

The groups merged and followed the blood through the dark streets, the templars feeling a new urgency in the task out of sympathy for their brother of the order's panic. It made little sense why such a careful killer would suddenly rush and leave so many clues, why he would take two women in as many days and leave a templar dead in an alley. The fact that Ebrisa was taken first and yet lived was encouraging for Leandra's own fate, but Cullen dared not voice his thoughts for fear of getting Hawke and Carver's hopes up.

He focused on the phylactery in his hand, feeling the soft pulsing of heat the blood gave off as a mimic to the mage's heartbeat. It was much quicker than when Orsino first activated the enchantment and Cullen could easily envision the blonde woman – the mage he knew would not use magic to save herself – trembling in terror as her heart thundered in her chest, and his own began to match.

 


	12. All That Remains

Leandra's head was no longer hers, now secured to a pieced together body with ugly, thick stitches and wicked, forbidden magic. Her eyes were discarded without care and new ones delicately retrieved from a fluid filled jar to replace them. Quentin took great care with the hodgepodge of parts after, washing it reverently before calling forth the power in his blood to awaken the creature.

Ebrisa wanted to scream when the defiled work of the Maker sat up and climbed off the polished table with Quentin's aide. The man was beyond pleased with himself and began to dress the figure in a white gown.

“Beloved is whole again. Well, her body is whole...” He smoothed out the hair of the mindless thing, smiling gently as he set a veil in place. “She is empty, but that is where you come in.” Quentin eased the mockery of life into a chair and turned his attention back to Ebrisa.

“I'm sure you are curious as to how you play in all this. In truth, I never would have thought myself lucky enough to find this piece of her in our world and was resigned to search the Fade.” Quentin sighed slowly, deflating a little with the memory. “My heart was so heavy when I could not complete my mission by our wedding anniversary and I ventured to the Chantry for the first time in a very long time. All seemed hopeless, but then... I heard her.”

His eyes lifted to the earthen ceiling, a smile tugging at his lips. “My beloved reached out to me through the Chant, masking her presence in the hoard of worshipers. A sign to stay strong? A glimmer of hope to keep back despair? I stayed in my seat long after the service concluded, holding her sweet singing voice in my heart and basking in it. Just as I was preparing to leave, I heard her again. Laughing.”

He moved to Ebrisa, pressing a hand against her chest. “You have part of her spirit in you! You're soul has taken her in, kept her safe for me until I could complete the vessel and restore my beloved.” Quentin looked into her reddened eyes, trying to see past them to the being he believed to be hiding inside her. “Now it is time for you to release her. You must draw her forward. After all, what would I want with _you_?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

Quentin moved back a few steps and held his palms out at his side, as if beckoning. “My wife was always so happy before the sickness stole her mirth. Let loose her laughter, Ebrisa.”

It started quietly, an awkward halfhearted chuckle, then grew louder but no less forced. It sounded too much like sobbing for the maleficar to be satisfied and the tears only solidified the notion. “No, enough.” The strangled sound ended abruptly. “I can not command your heart, but can you truly not feel happy for my achievement? This has been a labor of love!” He shook his head, knocking loose the building anger. “Sing, then.”

Ebrisa realized that the man would not kill her until he had gotten what he wanted and could not force the tone he was looking for in her voice. This was her first chance to defy him, her only way of fighting back, and she would do her best to hold on until help arrived.

“ _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

_Foul and corrupt are they_

_Who have taken His gift_

_And turned it against His children._

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

_They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.”_

 

Quentin scowled at the verse, fully realizing what the girl was doing. “Sing not the Chant, child. Give me a proper song.”

 

Ebrisa set her eyes on the man, jumping into the middle of a hymn that, while hopeful in meaning, did not convey the joy he sought.

“ _Bare your blade_

_And raise it high_

_Stand your ground_

_The dawn will come.”_

 

He smacked her hard across the face, staggering her a little as he snapped for something that had nothing to do with the Chantry. When she responded with a Dalish tune used for eulogies Feynriel had taught her, Quentin was near seething. “Silence! You mock me with but a breath of my beloved's joyous voice, just enough for me to know she is in there.” He picked up his dagger and held it against her throat, but the fear that lay in Ebrisa's eyes so firmly moments ago was replaced with a fierce defiance. If she was the only thing keeping Quentin from fully achieving his twisted goal, then she would hold as long as possible. Even if he killed her in a fit of rage, the knowledge that he would not succeed would be enough.

To her surprise, Quentin hooked the blade into her collar and dragged it down through the fabric of her robes. “I had hoped it would not come to this, but you seem unwilling to cooperate, even bound as you are. There was another action that filled my wife's voice with joy, another way she sang for me.”

 _~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
_ The discovery of Leandra's locket in the tunnel was the first bit of reassurance that the trail was indeed hers and not a lie of convenience from the young eyewitness and Hawke suddenly felt she owed the kid a few more silver pieces. Spurred on by the broken chain, Carver rushed down the rotting steps into the large, open space. Bookcases placed away from the dampness of the walls housed a startling number of tomes and a large bed near the stairs gave the sense that the murderer had not only been living there, but doing so for a long time. Skeletal bodies lay across the room, and presuming them to be more victims that had been around far longer than poor Alessa in the last room, Aveline moved forward to investigate.

Her presence set off a ward and the bone figures rose to a fighting stance, shades swarming in through the dirt. Aveline fell into her own stance, calling over her shoulder, “Guard yourself, there's more coming!”

Her companions and the templars quickly fell into formation, Anders refraining from any obvious and showy spells and striking at the creatures with the large blade of his staff. With luck, the Chantry soldiers would think his weapon a halberd and associate the thrum of magic he couldn't conceal with the dark aura emanating from the area. He hated having to hide who he was, but getting caught and brought in by the templars now would do nothing to help the mage cause.

When the shades where nearly disposed of, fire began bubbling from the ground. Cullen picked up on the summon instantly. “Rage demon,” he shouted to the room. “Cade, Shep, Vael!” Sebastian was surprised by the inclusion, but quickly recovered and joined the templar archers in attacking the fiery beast from a distance.

Abominations slipped through the walls and Hawke and Carver fell back to back, creating a ring of destruction around them. On any other night, Carver would have been annoyed that fighting beside his sister with matching massive weapons still felt so fluid. On any other mission, he would have been infuriated that he could sense her strikes before they came into his space or that she'd land a heavy down stroke just before he'd swing wide over both their heads. This was the thing that always proved they were related, that they not only grew up together, but did so with swords in their hands. Tonight, however, it didn't matter. Tonight, they were two siblings rescuing their mother.

When the last creature was struck down, the group took a moment to catch their breath and inspect the room. Books and notes lay scattered on the floor by an armchair, as if someone was in a hurry to leave. The murderer must have realized his mistakes or heard them approach, taking what he needed and fled. Cullen pulled the phylactery from his sash, a jolt of panic running through him when he no longer felt the warmth in the vial. The moment passed as quickly as it came once the container was fully removed, the glass cracked during the battle and the laced blood lost.

“Look at this...” Carver mumbled as he stared at a portrait leaning on a table surrounded by mismatched candles. Hawke came up beside him, staring at the vase of lilies and the painted figure.

“That woman in the portrait looks like Leandra, doesn't she?” Aveline studied the piece, the abduction making just a little more sense in her head.

“A shrine dedicated to a wife?” Anders suggested. “A sister?”

Hawke turned away, moving towards the once blocked corridor. “We need to find her. _Now_.”

 

The space opened up into another dropped room, much more streamlined and organized than the living area they'd just come from. Near the far end of the room stood a visibly angry Quentin, stripping his still and silent captive with rough cuts of his small blade. He took no care with the point, drawing small lines of blood on Ebrisa's rapidly exposed skin.

Cullen let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the still living apprentice, the sound hidden beneath the clanking of the party's armor and weapons. With all the noise they had been making, he knew any chance of stealth was long since lost. “Trevelyan!”

Quentin snapped up his head at the fast approaching group, first blinking, then smirking at them. “Templars? So Emeric had a little more pull than I thought.” He shifted his gaze to the non-uniformed fighters as he took a few steps from the other mage, keeping the runed blade in his hands. “I was wondering when you'd show up. Leandra was so sure you'd come for her.”

Hawke glanced around the room more carefully, spying a chair facing away and several covered tables. She studied the back of the blonde mage briefly, narrowing her eyes slightly when the supposed captive made no move to flee. “Mother always knew me best,” she quipped. “I do notice a lack of her presence, which could result in a lack of your head.”

“You will never understand my purpose.” Quentin shook his head. “These women were chosen because they are special, and now your mother is part of something... greater.”

Hawke held in a groan as the man stepped a bit closer. “You're crazy. I get it.”

“Where's our mother?” Carver added in a near growl.

Quentin's smile widened as he turned around, once again giving Ebrisa an opportunity to run to safety. “I have done the impossible. I have touched the face of the Maker and lived.”

“You didn't answer my question!” Carver took hold of the mage's robes, hate burning in his eyes.

“She's here. They're all here. Each of them did their part wonderfully. Well, most.” Quentin frowned, dropping from his drunken bliss for only a moment to glare at the silent woman standing nearby before grinning like the insane man he was. “Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is?” He paused, expecting someone to answer, then sighed wistfully. “Love.”

A veiled figure stood up from the chair, as if summoned.

“I pieced her together from memory,” Quentin explained as the rag doll body staggered from the chair. “I found her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers, her beautiful face... even a piece of her soul!” He laughed, overwhelmed with joy. “She is empty now, but I was just about to draw her out. I almost had her from the wench.”

The animated corpse completed its stumbling turn, facing the group with its dull eyes and mouth hung open. Carver dropped the mage in shock, staring at the creature with disbelief.

“Mother...” Hawke mumbled, nearly overcome at the sight. The _woman_ was so pale – too pale – and her eyes were the wrong color... they weren't her eyes. Nothing was her mother's... not any more.

Quentin used the moment to move to a safe distance at the corpse bride's side. “I've searched far and wide to find you again, beloved, and no force on this earth will part us.” He slit his palm, calling up a shield for himself and summoning all manner of creatures with blood magic.

As before, waves of shades, corpses, and abominations swarmed the group in defense of Quentin. The mage himself kept back, protecting his own skin and waiting for an opportunity to take his reconstructed bride and flee. He'd have to give up on his wife's spark for the moment, but he would find more of her in the Fade.

The sheer numbers the maleficar commanded was concerning, showcasing just how dangerous the man was. As Cullen fought with a desire demon that had feasted on one of the dead women spirits, the knight-captain tried to make his way over to the unmoving apprentice. Something was wrong. She had yet to make a sound or so much as flinch since they arrived. He knew she could not possibly be complicit in any aspect of Quentin's plan, that the blood mage had wanted something from her and failed to get it. Perhaps being interrupted had left the target in a sort of status.

The battle shifted and Quentin was loosing the upper hand. He shot another glare at his thrall, letting out a grunt of frustration. If he could not retrieve his wife's soul, then at least the young mage could provide some assistance. “Use your magic on the intruders!”

Ebrisa turned around, facing the room at last in her tattered cotton shift. Her command had been just vague enough and the mage cast barriers as quickly as she could, starting with Cullen. He stiffened as the magic coated him, meeting the mage's gaze through the fighting. Her expression was pleading, eyes wide with tears spilling freely from them as she tried to convey she had no real control.

“Sneaky wench,” Quentin muttered. “Attack the templars with fire magic! Is that clear enough for you?”

Heat building in her hands, Ebrisa felt her heart drop as she stared at her nearest target. She was uncertain if Cullen had heard the order, if he understood she had no say. She didn't want to do this. Maker, she _couldn't_ do this! Of the four templars there, only Cullen had a shield and with the added protection she just cast, the knight-captain had the best chance of remaining unharmed from her inevitable attack.

Logic said she should let loose her magic on him.

Logic said he was the best option.

But... she couldn't hurt Cullen.

Never Cullen.

 

Ebrisa aimed for the templar furthest away, hoping Shep would be out of range enough to avoid serious damage or see the attack coming and dodge. The latter proved untrue and the flames licked at the archer's gloves and consumed his bow. Shep dropped his weapon and dove to the side, rolling out of the stream of fire and smothering the blaze on himself before it spread further. Ebrisa held the spell for as long as possible, unwilling to switch targets and focused on the earthen wall across the room. She could try to use up all her mana to prevent further puppet casting, but that would take time. Quentin would surely notice and switch to more direct control, calling out specific targets. If he told her to attack Cullen...

A wave of energy cut through her, severing her connection to the Fade and stealing her breath. Ebrisa hit the floor in a limp heap, staring up at her dissipating spell as she tried to reorient herself with the world around her. There was a searing pain circulating her entire form and her body felt so heavy she feared it would break under its own weight. Everything was distorted, colors dull and dark while sound was muffled and distant. The air was thin and she sucked in breaths as quickly as she could in a desperate attempt to fill her aching lungs. Whatever had happened, the maleficar couldn't command her to do a single thing now.

 

Summoning so many had taken its toll on Quentin and his shield dropped. He panted from the strain and called forth one final group of shades to protect him, but Hawke rushed right past them with murder in her eyes. The mage managed to transport himself to the other side of the room just in time, allowing Hawke to crash into a table and tumble to the floor.

While his sister corrected herself, Carver set his sights on the maleficar and called forth his still new templar abilities to create a ring of magical silence. He lacked the skill as of yet to temporarily sever the blood mage's link to the Fade, but making a space where he couldn't cast was good enough. With no spells to defend himself, Quentin felt every crushing strike to its fullest potential. Hawke soon joined Carver and the two kept the maleficar from escaping the area, quickly bringing him to his knees. It was unsportsmanlike, but this wasn't a spar or a mission, this was revenge, pure and simple.

Hawke dropped her sword and stepped beside Carver, moving her hand towards his own. He instantly knew her intent and adjust his grip, allowing one of her hands to take half the weight of his sword and together they let out a feral battle cry and delivered the final blow. With Quentin's death, the few remaining creatures easily fell with the exception of the one wearing the dress staggering towards the siblings.

“Mother!” Hawke and Carver called out together, rushing to its side just as its legs buckled. Hawke carefully pulled the limp form into her lap, trying to focus on the shape of her mother's kind face instead of the odd coloring and wrong eyes. Carver knelt opposite her, hesitating to touch anything but their mother's hair.

“There's nothing I can do,” Anders mournfully told them, not caring if the templars took any meaning to his statement. “His magic was keeping her alive...”

Leandra, for in that moment it was truly Leandra and not a puppet, smiled up at her children. “I knew you would come. You're both here...”

Hawke let out a tight laugh, trying to return the smile and failing miserably. “You know me. I always save the day...”

“Don't move, Mother,” Carver urged, finding his voice raspy from the tears he was biting back. “We'll find a way to...”

“Shh. Don't fret, darling. That man would have kept me trapped in here. But now... I'm free.” Leandra looked upward, past the dirt overhead and into the sky beyond their sight. “I'll be with Bethany and your father, but...” Her expression fell. “I'll have to leave you two alone.”

“I should have watched you more closely,” Hawke admonished herself, growing angry to soften the blow her tears betrayed. “I should have...” She trailed off, voice and words failing her as she averted her gaze. Carver placed a hand on her shoulder and she felt the full warmth of the comfort even through her pauldron.

“We'll have each other,” Carver said, barely above a whisper. “Don't you worry about us, Mother.”

The distorted woman smiled at that. “My baby boy has grown so much and my little girl has become so strong. I love you, my little warriors. You've always made me so... proud...” The last of Quentin's magic faded away, leaving the body in Hawke's arms limp as she cried.

 

With the threat taken care of, Cullen finally sheathed his weapon and moved over to the still immobile mage, taking a knee before her and trying to get her attention. “Trevelyan, are you alright?”

Ebrisa grimaced in response, opening her eyes and searching around in confusion. She could feel someone at her side and in her foggy mind she feared it was Quentin, coming to finish what he started.

“Trevelyan,” he tried again, placing a hand to her bare shoulder with the intention of shaking it. Her skin felt so cold, but he was given little time to think on it as Ebrisa violently tried to squirm away, raspy words of protest tumbling from her mouth. Cullen took hold of her other arm, keeping her in place as he tried to ease her panic. “ _Ebrisa_.” He'd never used her given name, part of his poor attempt at professionalism, but those three syllables seemed to be what she needed and the mage stilled.

The world around her began to clear as she focused on the man hovering over her. “Cullen?” She sounded so confused, so uncertain if he was real – if anything was.

He let out a quiet sigh of relief as she stilled and eased his grip. “The discomfort should lift soon, but your magic will take longer to return. You didn't seem yourself and I was left with little choice but to cleanse you.” Cullen pulled her into a sitting position, feeling her muscle spasms through the barely modest remains of her clothing and tried to not focus on the mage's wincing.

Cullen ordered the rest of the lair searched in case Quentin hadn't been working alone, but Shep and Cade reported no signs of other people. Well, no one living anyhow. The covered tables in the room blocked the multitude of experimented corpses from view and there was a small side room filled with vats of a strange liquid and miscellaneous body parts in varying states of decay. Leandra's true body was found still strapped in place, Aveline moving away from her friends to make the identification and Sebastian promised to return with Chantry assistance later in the day to make the proper funeral arrangements for the unidentified victims.

The templar archers stood awkwardly by as Cullen waited for the frazzled mage to regain enough strength to stand. “Ser Cade, I noted some books in the other room that bore the Circle's seal and a few tomes of necromancy just from a glance. The entire collection must be confiscated.” Cullen looked up at Shep, ignoring the glare the singed man was casting the mage's way before addressing Cade once again. “If we encounter Ser Karras and his men on our way back, I'll need you to lead them here. If not, you'll go with a new team when we get to the Gallows.”

“Yes, Knight-Captain.” Cade nodded, looking around uneasily and clearly anxious to leave the lair.

Knowing they could wait no longer, Cullen stood and pulled Ebrisa to her feet with one hand on her elbow and the other to her back. She wobbled – her body, mind, and spirit still incredibly unbalanced – and grasped his arm tightly to keep from falling over. He expected her to laugh awkwardly or look at him sheepishly, to make some comment about lacking lady-like grace or immediately release her hold with an embarrassed squeak, but she didn't. Ebrisa hadn't said a thing since she uttered his name, hadn't raised her eyes from the dirt since they met his, and an unsettling feeling washed over him. Something was clearly very wrong.

“Come on,” he said softly, coaxing Ebrisa to move and making no attempt to remove her hands from his arm. Instead, he glanced down at the mage for a brief moment and spoke with a firmness that surprised even himself. “Don't worry, I've got you.” He felt her grip tighten, uncertain if he'd said the right or wrong thing.

They moved for the steps, Cullen and Ebrisa taking the lead, and stopped beside the other group to offer condolences. Ebrisa kept her gaze on her bare feet, unable to look at the woman she couldn't help or her devastated children – the fact that she knew them making her shame all the more potent.

“Why didn't you do anything?” Hawke drew her angry, watery eyes up to the mage. When the blonde woman didn't respond, Hawke's fury overtook her sadness. “Du Puis said this monster was from Starkhaven's Circle – you came from there, right? Were you working with him?”

Ebrisa flinched, unable to say anything because she wasn't entirely sure if she hadn't been an accomplice. He commanded her with blood magic, but if she had tried to find more loopholes in Quentin's commands, maybe Leandra would still be alive.

“Hawke,” Sebastian began gently. “You know that's not true.”

“Do I?” She turned sharply to the archer, tears slipping free from the sudden motion. “She was taken first, but isn't hurt at all! She attacked the templars! Why would she if she wasn't on his side?”

Ebrisa dragged her eyes over to Shep, studying the reddened blisters on his hands and hoping she hadn't robbed him of their use. Hawke wasn't exactly wrong.

Hawke held back a snort in favor of a snarl. “This monster was a blood mage, Decimus was a blood mage, those Starkhaven apostates who attacked us years ago were blood mages – maybe the reason _that_ Circle burned down was because it was maleficar central!” She took a breath and returned her attention to the body in her lap. “If Trevelyan isn't a blood mage, then why isn't she dead?”

“Hawke, I know you're hurting, but you can't just paint them all the same...” Anders stared at his friend, completely baffled by her broad stroke.

“Can't I?” She mumbled, the exchange leaving her very drained.

Ebrisa finally managed to find her voice, though it was tight with emotion. “That would have been better,” she admitted, drawing surprised looks from the group. “He made me – I didn't want to – I-” She swallowed the painful lump in her throat, unable to hold back her emotions any longer and glad that she was cut off from the Fade in that moment. “Messere Leandra... She was kind to me, she understood that I-”

“Don't you talk about my mother,” Hawke hissed, her initial surprise quickly replaced with disgust.

“Ser Carver,” Cullen began, taking control of the conversation. “I'm granting you personal leave. Take whatever time you need.” The dark-haired templar nodded, but could offer nothing more in way of understanding as the knight-captain lead the rest of his group up the stairs and back through the tunnels.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter featured a lot of direct quotes because, honestly, Ebrisa being there wouldn't effect the Hawke family's reactions. I always felt that the sibling in the Gallows (templar Carver or mage Bethany) would resent Hawke for being with their mother in those final moments and being robbed of a chance to say goodbye. By involving Carver, even though he didn't add much to the chapter until the very end, I'm preventing some of that misplaced animosity.
> 
> Also, I originally took this chapter somewhere worse, but realized it would have effected Ebrisa's character too much and I didn't want to cheapen the trauma by not giving her enough recovery time. I rewrote this and the next two chapters to reflect the change, but I'm a little saddened because I had some bits I really liked. Maybe I can tie them in somewhere else down the line?


	13. Isolation

Though there were several mitigating circumstances in Ebrisa's departure from the Gallows, Cullen was certain to follow the normal procedure and took her to an isolation cell for quarantine. Normally, he would delegate the task to someone else – normally he wouldn't have even been out looking – but given the mage's current state, he elected to see her settled personally. The curious onlookers of the night sentries that tried to fall in line behind him were given instruction to inform the knight-commander of their return and see Shep to the healers. The wounded archer insisted he could find his own way, but Cullen needed assurance that the man was actually seen to.

Ebrisa still held fast to his arm, adjusting her position at his side to use him as a shield and block herself from view. Cullen had tried to ignore it and focused on getting her back to the Gallows, but now that they were standing in the middle of a cell with nothing left to do but wait, his mind had the opportunity to process. Meredith and Orsino would question Ebrisa about what happened from when she left the Circle to the templars finding her, but what Cullen wanted to know was what had made her cling to him so tightly.

He had seen the look in her eyes as Quentin shouted instructions, saw the conflicting emotions as she began to call the flames to her hands, and witnessed her desperation as she twisted away from him to attack Shep. He knew without her saying anything that Ebrisa had been under the maleficar's control – a control she struggled against with everything she had. She had been through something terrible, and likely witnessed some of the wicked magic that brought about the stitched woman. Cullen had no idea what Quentin had made her do during the time he had her enthralled and the templar wasn't entirely sure he could stomach knowing.

Cullen already felt sick enough having to sever Ebrisa from the Fade. It was a skill he had used countless times before without a second thought and understood that each mage reacted differently to it. Her response was perhaps the most painful looking he'd ever witnessed and from the level of confusion she displayed, it was likely Ebrisa's first experience with the ability. Cullen was uncertain if her panic was from the cleansing or the blood magic, but the only thing that broke through was him saying her name, and he had a feeling it worked precisely because it was _him_ who said it.

That sounded a bit arrogant, and he wouldn't have even entertained the notion if not for the look in her eyes when she saw him and mumbled his name. It was brief and he couldn't be entirely certain, but Cullen swore he saw trust and hope with a spark of relief shimmering in her bright green orbs. There was another light there, hidden behind the others before everything was replaced with sorrow and shame.

She hadn't used his name before either, always addressing him by title no matter how casual their conversation turned. As far as he was aware, actually, the only ones Ebrisa did call simply by name with no honorifics were the two children she first arrived at the Gallows with. He was uncertain if the inclusion had any meaning or if she was simply too overwhelmed by her ordeal to think properly and abandoned manners. Ebrisa had clutched his armor so desperately, her soft form seeking comfort from his hard metal one and he had been unable to give it. He had wanted to, and that's what worried him the most.

Carefully, Cullen removed her hands from his arm and stepped back. “It is rather late, so the knight-commander and first enchanter might not question you tonight, but you should gather your thoughts none the less.” Isolation cells had no furniture to speak of, no comforts to shield against the stonework, and Cullen silently hoped her magic had returned so Ebrisa could call on it for warmth. She would definitely need it, but part of him already knew she wouldn't resort to such a thing.

“My advice is to hold nothing back,” he said in a low voice, trying to keep the sound from echoing to the hall where others stood guard. “Any omission may paint you in a negative light, no matter how small.” Cullen paused, trying to think of what more he could possibly do. “Just be honest... Trevelyan.”

“Of course,” she replied, her first words since walking away from Hawke. “Thank you, Knight-Captain.”

He nodded and left the cell, shutting the door behind himself and standing with the guard until word came from Meredith. Whatever had caused the lapse in protocol had passed and just like that Cullen sought professional distance and Ebrisa returned to her formal mannerisms. A sheltered part of him was disappointed, already missing the sound of his name on her lips, wondering how it would play as she smiled or laughed. Cullen shook his head, pushing the idea further behind how he knew they should act, and reminded himself that things were back to normal.

Confusing, conflicting, normal.

~~~~~~~~  
The cold of the stone seeped into Ebrisa's legs and hands as she sat on the floor, watching the dancing flames in the fireplace but too far from it to feel any of its warmth. Normally she would spend the night reading or wandering the empty fortress until the morning broke the Fade's hold on her and the rooms crumbled away. She had been dreaming of this place most of her life, each year the area expanded, bricks added every time she closed her eyes. It had the trappings of a Circle of Magi, but looked nothing like Starkhaven's polished stronghold or Kirkwall's Tevinter prison and she had long since given up on figuring out where she was.

The sound of a creaking door had Ebrisa scrambling to her feet and whirling around to face the direction of the noise. She stared down the dark corridor with equal parts fear and curiosity as a shadowy figure approached. Every night she spent in this place had been alone – no spirits, no demons, no anything – and the fact that she would receive company of any sort after having Quentin poison her had her nervous.

A woman with straight, raven hair and ivory skin stepped into the light of the room, gently holding up the front of her long robes as she walked. She met Ebrisa's bright green eyes with a darker hued set and smiled sympathetically.

Ebrisa knew she should be suspicious of the sudden appearance, be wary of the Fade creature, but after the horrific experience she had and the suffocating need to feel comforted, she just couldn't. “Mother...” she mumbled, feeling the hot tears brim her eyes and blur her vision. It had been six years since she had last seen the Lady Trevelyan and another six since the woman had looked like this, but that was undoubtedly the image of her mother standing across the room. Her mother who had nurtured her etiquette and education, instilled her with a love for music and for the Maker. Her mother before magic spoiled her future...

The woman raised her brow in mild surprise, then creased it back down in concern and dropped the fine fabrics in her hands. She held out her arms and in an instant Ebrisa was rushing over to them, getting wrapped up in an embrace that banished the cold from her body. “Its alright, sweetling,” the woman said soothingly. “Mother is here. Go ahead and let it all out.”

The mage's knees gave out as she began to cry and the woman eased them gently to the floor, all the while keeping a firm, but loving, hold. Ebrisa cried into the woman's shoulder and vaguely registered she was sitting in her lap like a child, something she hadn't been allowed for a very long time, and something she desperately missed.

After starting the small fire in Ostwick's Chantry, Lady Trevelyan doubled her lessons on Andraste's teachings and focused on one aspect of etiquette more than the others – control over emotions. Young Ebrisa was taught and retaught that emotions gave too much away and could betray more than she realized. She could be scared or sad or angry, but she should never show it. A lady was expected to smile, to hold every negative thought or feeling back, to give the impression of a peaceful sanctuary for her betters and, one day, for her husband. A lady could not cry openly, as her concerns were always small in comparison to those above her, too small to draw attention to. A weak lady spoke of a weak family, and there was no greater shame she could bring them. A lady must be dignified in all things.

Ebrisa had failed in doing that, shaming her family twice over in one night. She had been too raw with emotion when Cullen found her, too overwhelmed and terrified and disgusted with herself to compose a simple _Thank you, Knight-Captain_ like she should have. She reacted on instinct when he called to her, feeling his hands on her skin as he said her name and in that moment she forgot all of her training and lessons and etiquette and had only the desire to feel safe. Cullen always made her feel safe.

Every second that her limbs weighed her down, she was begging in her mind for him to pick her up and hold her tightly, to reaffirm that he was really there and it was really over. When he finally did help her up and held her in the barest of embraces, she greedily clutched on to him the entire journey home. But even in her frantic state of mind, she could tell the templar was being stiff and trying to be as distant from her as possible without pushing her away outright. That line she was so concerned about crossing was a mile behind her at that point and the lack of etiquette she should have employed had made Cullen uncomfortable, even if he was too kind to say so. Her mother had tried to teach her to be a proper lady, but she had failed and added it to her failure to protect herself against Quentin's magic.

She had failed as a lady, but here in the Fade she could cry and scream and act the child while her mother smoothed her curly hair and whispered comforting words into the firelight.

~~~~~~~~~

It had been days, maybe even a full week, since Uldred snapped and enacted his plan against the Circle. He dealt with the clergy quickly, finding their devotion to the Maker made them impossible to corrupt. In a way, Uldred was being merciful by killing the resident sisters and mothers so swiftly. He had no such mercy for the templars. The _jailors_ he did not have slaughtered outright were gathered into small groups and tortured. Some fell quickly to temptations, becoming thralls of various demons that Uldred let roam the Circle, but others took longer to break.

Cullen found himself sealed in a magic prison tucked away by the stairs to the Harrowing chamber with three of his fellows and they relied upon each other for strength against the demons' tricks. They had started out so defiant, but Annlise was beginning to sway. She would cry out, arms wrapped around her stomach as her torturer played with her mind, played with her hidden hopes and fears, until she whimpered for death. The others tried their best to be supportive, to encourage her to hold on, but they knew she would not last much longer.

Being held so close to the room Uldred used to recruit abominations, the four templars bore witness to the near constant stream of mages being taken up the stairs and the trickle of monsters that descended them. From the noises coming from within the chamber, the Chantry soldiers did not have to wonder what became of the rest of the visitors. Each face that passed the cage was familiar, each a charge they needed to protect, each a reminder of the duty they were failing.

It was only a matter of time before they grabbed _her_.

Cullen stiffened as abominations dragged Surana to the steps, his lungs seizing from the flicker of fear that rushed through him. Surana, the fiery-haired elf, the confident mage who had passed her test in that very same Harrowing chamber not a month before, fought the monsters at every chance. Her eyes locked with Cullen through the hazy barrier and in that brief instant she flashed him a reassuring smirk. Somehow, that simple gesture of confidence settled his nerves and he felt that she would overcome this obstacle as she had every other one that came before her – with strength, charm, and speed. If anyone could survive Uldred's wicked plan, it was Surana.

He had lived and relived this day many times over, but then something changed. Something happened that never had before. Behind the elven mage, another abomination dragged in a seemingly unresisting young woman. Golden curls obscured her face only a little, but still she was unfamiliar, out of place. As she was brought closer to the cage, Cullen could make out her quiet recitation of the Chant of Light. The flash of fear that hit him when Surana passed returned, growing in intensity the longer he looked at the blonde stranger.

This was wrong.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Cullen pounded his fists against the barrier, ignoring the sear of pain the action caused. “Leave her alone! Don't you touch her!”

The abominations stopped their procession and both of the mages looked to the cage. Surana let out a deep, burst of laughter, something that used to fill Cullen with warmth, but now shook him to the core. “You know what happens, Cullen. You can't stop it. You never could.” She shrugged, dismissing his concern as though he was complaining about what was on the menu for supper. Had she always been so flippant about serious matters?

“Rules are rules, Knight-Captain,” the blonde mage sighed sympathetically, offering him a weak smile. “It's fine. I'll be fine.” The word barely had a chance to complete before the previously immobile abomination thrust its claws into the woman's back, piercing all the way through and sticking out of her chest like blood stained stalagmites.

~~~~~~~~~  
Cullen shot up in bed in a panic, hand reaching out into the darkness in a vain attempt to catch the injured mage in his dream. Once the realization that is _had_ been a dream sunk in, he flopped back against the mattress and dropped his arm over his face. It was not the first time he had nightmares about Kinloch Hold and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. All of his previous bunk mates had complained about the way he talked in his sleep, the frantic mumblings often keeping them awake when the nightmare was particularly bad. Well, all of them save Samson.

He let out a heavy sigh, grateful once again that officers were afforded personal quarters, small though they may be. As his pulse returned to normal, Cullen began to ponder the dream and its strange turn. The sudden appearance of Ebrisa in it left him confused, as the nightmares never deviated before, but his reaction to her presence left him even more so. He was scared for her, despite being unable to place her during the course of the dream, and when the abomination attacked... it was like the creature had hit Cullen's heart instead.

~~~~~~~  
In the end, Meredith and Orsino waited until the late morning to question Ebrisa. The knight-commander had the hall cleared of rank and file templars and left her officers to stand by the door as she and Orsino went inside. The miserable sight of the mage gave Meredith pause and she barely managed to muffle her gasp. She shook her head and set her stoic expression before proceeding with standard protocol and searching for obvious signs of blood magic abuse. The thin lines scratched into Ebrisa's flesh were too shallow to draw much blood, appearing more superficial than useful, and both leaders agreed they were not caused by the apprentice's own hand. The matter settled, Meredith finally began the interrogation.

Ebrisa's voice was quiet when she spoke, though not too soft that she wasn't heard through the door, and answered everything with a pragmatic calmness. Though she used personal pronouns, Ebrisa was trying to detach herself from the events to make them more bearable to relate. Everything came out in such an indifferent manner that Orsino was beginning to suspect the templars had made the girl Tranquil during her retrieval.

When it came out that she had been made a thrall to the maleficar, Ebrisa expected Meredith to end the questioning and pass sentence immediately. The fact that Cullen or one of the others hadn't executed her on the spot last night was still difficult to comprehend. It wasn't that she wanted to die, but the mage was fully aware of the threat she posed by simply being tainted with blood magic. There was no way of knowing if Quentin had implanted ideas in her head or if his death meant the spell was gone. All she could say with confidence was that while Quentin had commanded her physically, she was always in control of her senses and thoughts.

The revelation eased Orsino's initial concerns and he explained that like any other school of magic, there were different variations. If Quentin employed control over her body instead of control over her mind, it was likely he was incapable of doing so at all as mental control was the stronger of the two. Meredith cast a look at the elf, but ultimately accepted his assessment.

 

It was in agreement that, given Ebrisa had openly admitted to being under the influence of blood magic, she should go through the Harrowing. Ser Karras tried to push for the mage to be made Tranquil, claiming there was no way to know what truly happened, but Meredith flatly refused. Any demons placed within the mage would emerge during the Harrowing and they would just need to be on their guard.

The knight-commander suggested waiting to the end of the week to give Ebrisa time to recover, but many of the officers in the meeting disagreed. If there was truly something sinister hiding in the mage, then it had to be dealt with as soon as possible. Normally, Meredith would have come to that decision on her own. Normally, Cullen would back up his superior in her choices. Thing was, neither of them were thinking as they normally would.

Many templars had commented to each other about the way their leader acted towards Trevelyan. To those who did not know the woman well, it would be easy to miss, but for the templars who had been at the Gallows for years or worked closely with the knight-commander, she was strangely accommodating to the blonde mage. Granted unsupervised access to the Templar Hall, given leave to use grounds keeping tools whenever she needed, free to make whatever sort of requisitions she liked, and those trips to the Chantry. True, Trevelyan had yet to abuse any of those and had been nothing but gracious in the liberties she was given, but why had Meredith given them at all?

The knight-commander was not treating the mage as she did all the others, not thinking her as one of them and her second was making a conscious effort to not do the same. Cullen stood with the others, firmly reciting procedure and swaying Meredith into agreeing without needing to call her out. If the discussion had been dragged out any longer, one of the others might have done just that. There were enough whispers about the knight-commander as it was and if the officers couldn't show their support and loyalty to the order, then what hope was there for the rank and file templars to follow suit?

 


	14. Harrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long one, but each scene was too short to be a chapter on their own...

Ebrisa opened her eyes, her hazy vision slowly focusing on a broken pillar across the floor. She pulled herself up and took a good look at her decrepit surroundings, trying to remember where she was or how she got there. The last thing she recalled was sitting in the isolation cell after finally being given fresh, new clothing. Orsino and a small squad of templars took her to a spacious room in a section of the Gallows she'd never been in before with large wards engraved into the otherwise smooth floor. It was filled with more templars and the knight-commander, all of them standing around a glyph and watching her expectantly. Orsino had said something, something important, and directed her to a glowing basin. She touched the liquid, and then... then she...

“This is... the Fade?” Ebrisa's voice carried further than she thought it would, cutting through the silence and echoing back to her with an eerie reverb. Everything looked wrong somehow, distorted, and she wondered if it was normal to feel so disoriented in the Fade. This was not the Fade she knew – far from it – but this wasn't a dream, this was her Harrowing. The mage pushed aside the uneasiness and tore her eyes away from the small islands floating in the yellow sky. She focused on the cracked tiles beneath her feet and followed them away from the collapsed ruins she'd woken up in.

The path degraded into loose cobble stones, twisting around strange statues and climbing over hills. She had no idea what she was supposed to do, where she was supposed to go, and that was part of the test. The Harrowing was a carefully guarded secret and Ebrisa couldn't help but wonder if that meant each was different and suited to the specific mage, or just too trying and unpredictable to recall correctly later.

There were rumors, or course, whispered horror stories from an enchanter that someone knew from another Circle or recorded in a journal an old roommate had found or some other impossible to confirm source. Demons lie in wait to kill the apprentice or possess them. Templars will kill you if you take too long. If you get lost, you are stranded in the Fade forever. It seemed the only thing no one knew was how to successfully complete the Harrowing and return to the waking world.

“My, oh my,” a rich, feminine voice called out from above. Ebrisa jumped in surprise and shot her eyes upwards. A glowing figure sat atop the capital of a column, too far and bright against the sky to make out. “Oh, forgive me.” The being floated down from her perch and dimmed her shine, reducing her form to something more solid, though still vague.

Its entire being, save its deep violet eyes, was a soft lilac. The arms and legs fanned out like the fabric of an elegant gown, ridding the figure of defined hands or feet. It had long, flowing bangs that twisted to the side and floated gracefully around her head as she moved. “This is better for mortal eyes, yes?”

“It, um, yes.” Ebrisa blinked at the figure, its presence not entirely unexpected, but still rather surprising. “Thank you.”

It smiled sweetly. “I am a spirit of love, and you are no dreamer.”

“I...”

“Oh, do not fret over me, sweet child,” the spirit giggled. “I've seen many of these tests over my long existence.”

Ebrisa chewed on her bottom lip, knowing she should be cautious but also knowing she needed a little direction. “Can you tell me what I'm supposed to do?”

The spirit studied her for a while, watching her shift uncomfortably under her dark eyes. It grinned widely, nodding once. “I sense a great capacity for love in you, sweet child. It would be my honor to aid you through this task so you might return and spread that beautiful nature.”

“Oh, you needn't bother yourself,” Ebrisa awkwardly tried to refuse. “A simple point in the right direction will do.”

“Nonsense,” the spirit chuckled as it floated down the path. “Allow me to be your guide, as I have assisted so many before you.”

The mage rubbed her forehead and took a slow breath. She had read about goodly spirits of the Fade – they were the Maker's first children, after all – and surely a being of love could be up to nothing malicious. With a soft hum, Ebrisa followed the spirit down the path.

“You should know that once you entered this place, a demon caught your scent – so to speak – and will be hunting you.” Love looked over her shoulder to frown in concern. “It is something that always happens and is part of your test. This demon you must defeat. Once you do, you pass.”

The idea of facing a demon all on her own was intimidating to say the least and Ebrisa's stomach twisted into nervous knots. When she faced demons in Feynriel's dream, she had merely provided support to Hawke and the others as they took down a dozen at once. They had made it look so very easy, but what could she do on her own?

This was a test designed to gauge her strength of will and aptitude for the arcane, not battlefield strategies and war tactics. The spirit had said there was _a demon_ hunting her. Just one. It was possible to defeat a single enemy by herself, right? Ebrisa had defended the Harrowing to Hawke before, claiming the Circle wouldn't test mages just to watch them fail. The instructors must have seen something in her that made them confident enough to put her through the Harrowing. Why else would they do this now?

But Orsino had not taken her from her room, he brought her from isolation. Isolation she was in because of Quentin's twisted magic infesting her.

Ebrisa stopped walking, suddenly understanding why she was really being tested.

The spirit drifted back to the mage, frowning slightly. “Sweet child, we must keep moving if you hope to catch the demon before he catches you.”

“I... I'm not ready for this,” Ebrisa mumbled. “They're just making sure I'm not already corrupted...” She dropped to her knees on the uneven path, hanging her head as though her body could no longer support the weight of it.

“Nonsense!” Love laughed, sweeping low behind the mage to come close to her ear. “There is nothing inside you that distorts your bright, powerful gift. You shine more than those I've seen come before. Pure and radiant.”

“But I... I'm not...” She let out a tired sigh, uncertain how much of what the spirit was telling her was true and how much was simply to encourage her. Still, now that the Harrowing had begun, there was no going back. She either passed or she died. “I suppose there's no sense in defeating myself before I even see the demon...”

“Exactly so,” Love whispered.

Ebrisa climbed back to her feet and dug deep for the courage to move forward, slowly placing one foot in front of the other until she'd regained her previous pacing. The spirit beamed at her and eagerly lead the way, seemingly dancing in the air as they passed twisted plants interwoven with failed structures and other glowing beings. For the most part, the other spirits ignored them, but a few watched curiously. One of them, a figure of wafting indigo, began to follow them at a distance.

“Why do they look at me like that?” The mage whispered to her guide, feeling a very intent set of eyes on her back.

Love released a small sigh, sweeping a dramatic arm through the air. “They do not approve of your tradition, I'm afraid. Many find it cruel or foolish to subject your kind to this, but they do not understand.”

“And what do you think of it?”

The spirit smiled. “I think its a wonderful thing and a brilliant display of trust and love. As you use all they have taught you in the Fade, they watch over you in the mortal realm.”

Ebrisa hummed softly. It was the first time she had heard the Harrowing described in such a way and felt she agreed at least a little with the notion, but there was something strange about the comment.

The air that had been still and stagnant began to turn cold, making Ebrisa's breath come out in white puffs. Ice dotted the narrowing path and the mage could feel the encroaching presence growing stronger the closer they moved. Love urged her forward silently, smiling encouragingly and gesturing to be confident and strong. Before long, they came across the source of the chill and the goal of the Harrowing.

At first glance, it appeared to be a shade or sloth demon and Ebrisa was filled with a surge of confidence that she could defeat the common creature. The figure was dressed in tattered robes and hid much of its head in the deep hood of gossamer fabric but what did stand out where large, rodent-like incisors. It gave the mage pause, her hesitation enough to alert the demon to her presence and rob her of the chance for a surprise attack.

“Taking the initiative for the first time in your life and come for me?” The demon hissed, its voice colder than the frozen ground it hovered over. “Or do you simply follow orders, like always?”

Ebrisa looked nervously to the spirit behind her, but Love merely motioned her on.

“The later. Of course its the later. Far be it from you to ever act on your own accord and do anything by yourself.” The demon sighed as if bored. “Isn't that how you got into this situation?”

“What... what do you know of why I'm here?”

The demon chuckled, the sound sending a chill down Ebrisa's spine. “You have no willpower – it is a wonder you can cast any spell at all – and do whatever you are told. A templar took you from the safety of your prison and look what happened to you. The death you witnessed, the torture you endured, the tainting you sustained... all because you aren't strong enough to say _no_.”

Ebrisa swallowed past the tightness in her throat and motioned a shaky hand to the spirit. “Sh-she says I'm not corrupted by the blood magic.”

“You know that's not true.” The demon slid closer, its boney fingers flexing beneath its sleeves. “Your body is no longer pure, forever tainted with blood magic. Quentin may not have taken you physically, but he has left his mark all over you. If you thought love was hard to receive before, it will be impossible now. You give and give to ensure the happiness of others, you show kindness and love in hopes of it being returned, but it isn't.”

“Stop...” Ebrisa whispered, having difficulty finding her determination. “Stop talking...”

“Now it never will be,” the demon continued, ignoring her meek protest. “No one wants somebody already used, already tainted. No one will love you.”

“That... that's not true.” The mage struggled to keep the tears from her eyes.

“The people in the Circle – mage and templar – already treat you so coldly. How will they act when they learn that you stood by and did nothing while women were slaughtered before your eyes? Will any even look at you, knowing that you aided a murderer?”

“It wasn't like that! I-I was under his control!” She shook her head furiously, the tears she was fighting flying free in drops. “I didn't want to! I was forced!”

“The how and why are unimportant,” the demon hissed. “All that anyone cares about is the _what_ and you can not deny _what happened_.”

Ebrisa blanked on a counter for what the demon was saying. It didn't matter that she didn't want anything that happened to her, because it still happened. Ignoring it would not erase it and it was entirely possible that all of the Gallows knew about it by now. How could she possibly face any of them? Would she ever be able to met anyone's eyes again?

Cold began seeping into Ebrisa's body, drawing out her warmth and her strength as the demon circled her and spoke of her failures. Each mistake, each perceived transgression, weighed her down and rooted her in place. She no longer held back her tears, feeling the heat run from her eyes down her icy cheeks and wondered how she had lasted so long with everything she'd done wrong in her life.

A voice drifted in, somewhat familiar, and Ebrisa had trouble determining where it was coming from at all, but recognized the words from the Chant.

“ _Many are those who wander in sin,_

_Despairing that they are lost forever..._ ”

 

Despair.

This was not a creature of sloth, but a demon of despair and he was preying on her. This was her test!

Ebrisa scrubbed her hands furiously over her face, wiping away the tears and restoring some of her stolen warmth. She locked eyes with the creature, gathering her mana and will into her hands as she filled her mind with accounts of success. The mage may have made mistakes and disappointed many people, but she had one thing she never wavered in, one thing she always came back to.

Faith.

Fire sprang to life between Ebrisa's fingers and she attacked the demon with a strangled scream of defiance. Despair was taken by surprise with the sudden spell and caught by the sweep of flames, getting consumed in the blaze before it could float away. It struggled against the inferno, having had no time to protect itself, and was soon reduced to ash. Ebrisa panted loudly, startled by the intensity of her spell and how powerful she was when not holding back. It frightened her and once again she dreaded the idea of using it against another person, wondering if Ser Shep was truly alright.

“Well done!” Love cheered, floating over to inspect the scorch mark where the demon once stood. “I knew you could overcome Despair.” It lowered its head and frowned slightly. “Oh, but that demon did draw out some painful truths. You are unhappy. Alone. No one to care for you...” It gasped and straightened, turning fully to the mage once again. “Ah, but what sort of spirit of love would I be if I didn't offer you my aid?”

Ebrisa had fought back the demon, but its words had still stung her deeply. She raised her teary eyes to the spirit before her and chewed on her lip. “Aid? Aid how? Like... advice?” Honestly, she could use any sort of assistance from the spirit.

“No, sweet child,” the spirit laughed. “I will help you take love.”

That gave Ebrisa pause. “Ta-take? What do you mean by _take_?”

Love swung her arms widely, tossing back her head dramatically. “How long have you wanted to be accepted, to be loved by more than _children_ who cling to you as a substitute mother? No one will simply _give_ you this, or they would have done so already! You deserve this, you have earned it, and what is not given _must_ be taken!”

The mage dropped her gaze, studying her empty hands and wondering if she really had earned anything.

“Sweet, sweet child,” Love sighed. “You needn't understand, merely know that I can help you.” It moved behind the mage, playing with her curly, blonde strands delicately. “The things you want? You will never get them on your own. No one will love you – no one _can_ love you – without me. I know your heart better than you do. I know what you desire the most, what you can't admit you long for, even to yourself.” The spirit leaned in close, its lips a hair's breath from her ear. “If you don't let me in, you'll never have him.”

A shiver ran through Ebrisa's body, a big part of her knowing that the spirit was at least partially correct. She had been doing her best to act kind and respectful to those around her, but none had shown any indication of being swayed towards friendship since Feynriel became Tranquil. She'd all but given up on the prospect of ever seeing more than that, of ever being romantically involved. Especially now...

“So,” the spirit continued, slowly pulling back and allowing the mage's hair to slip between her invisible fingers. “Do we have a deal?”

Ebrisa brought in her hands and wrapped her arms around her waist, holding herself as she stared at a broken statue across the clearing. “That's... wrong. That's all _wrong_. I'm not so desperate for acceptance that I would force it, so starved for affection that I would let it be perverted to have it.”

Love recoiled. “Perverted? Sweet child, whatever do you mean?”

“Feelings can't be forced and still be true,” Ebrisa mumbled. “They can't be rushed or faked. They take time to form, to develop. That's why they're so important.” She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. “A _real_ spirit of love would know that.”

The being humphed and began to shine. “I suppose you're right.” Its form shifted ever so slightly, the sweeping bangs solidifying into horns and long fingers emerging from the cuffs of her now defined sleeves.

The desire demon smirked at Ebrisa where her guide once stood, the fire beside its eyes sparking to life. “But everything I said _is_ true. As you are, you can't get what you desire, get _who_ you desire.” It strolled around the clearing, jewelry clinking as she moved. “Are you truly content to wait for something that may or may not happen? A waste of time, when my offer still stands.” It drew a nail lightly down its torso. “Let me in, sweet child, and you can have all the love you desire.”

Ebrisa swept her arms out, as if swatting the words away. “I will _not_ , demon! I would never accept a fake, forced love!” She straightened and mustered up the strength to stare down Desire despite the tears in her eyes. “And if I did, I would never deserve the real thing.”

Her true opponent scoffed at the refusal and threw back her head. “Fine, mage, keep your pathetic mortal form.” The demon's own form began to brighten and disappear. “You may have beaten Despair here, but good luck doing the same in your lonely, little life. You could have had everything you wanted. You could have had _him_.”

Once Desire's words faded in the quiet, Ebrisa felt her knees weaken. “But... it wouldn't be real.” The tears ran freely down her face as she sank to the ground and felt the world begin to slip away. “It wo- wouldn't be... it wouldn't...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Cullen could see from the way Hugh's hand twitched over the pommel of his blade as he stood behind the mage that the templar was getting nervous. The younger man had been selected to deal the killing blow should Trevelyan fail her Harrowing, but Cullen took it upon himself to stand at his side in case Hugh could not act fast enough to stop an abomination. He also stood there to ensure the less experienced templar didn't strike too early, but Ebrisa was taking an awfully long time.

He suddenly remembered the last time he felt so anxious in a Harrowing. Cullen was in Fereldan, in Hugh's shoes, and _she_ was in Ebrisa's. Surana was always so confident, so strong, that it came as no surprise when she finished the test in record time. It seemed like she could do anything.

His dream came back to him then; Ebrisa following behind Surana as they were taken to Uldred, the fear that swallowed him as he realized what was going to happen to them in that distorted memory. In reality, when they dragged Surana past Cullen's cage and into the Harrowing chamber, he knew she would not give in, and he was right. Surana did not surrender to Uldred or join his side, but neither did she survive.

Were the spirits of the Fade giving him a warning? Was his dream a premonition, a parallel of tonight's test? Now that Ebrisa had been marched into the Harrowing Chamber, would she not survive either?

“If she hasn't done it by now, then she isn't going to,” Karras whispered to Meredith at his side, the hushed words carrying easily across the entire room. Several others looked to the candles, gauging the time by the spent wax, and silently agreeing. They had already waited longer than usual, but it was ultimately the knight-commander's decision when to end the test.

Meredith hesitated, wanting to give the mage more time to break from the trance posture and return to the waking world triumphant, but ultimately knowing the others were right. She closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh before straitening her back and nodding to Hugh across the room. “Very well. Do it.”

The young templar jumped slightly. “Ye-yes, Knight-Commander!” Hugh drew his sword from its scabbard and adjusted his shaking grip, shuffling his feet a little to widen his stance.

Cullen felt his entire body tense up as the man beside him prepared to strike down the apprentice. He'd seen plenty of failed Harrowings, several mages turn into abominations right before his eyes and lash out after only a brief moment of confusion. He'd watched dozens of mages never wake from the test, having become lost in the Fade or trapped by a demon that would rather consume their being than follow the connection back to the mortal realm. In Kinloch Hold, Knight-Commander Greagoir would wait for hours before ending Harrowings, but the extra time never brought favorable results. There was a certain point when it just didn't make sense to keep waiting, and Ebrisa had passed that point already.

Still, Cullen didn't feel right about slaying the mage. He saw it in his mind already; Hugh swinging his sword into the woman's neck, the sound of the blade scraping against her collar bone and slicing through flesh, the fanning of her curly hair as it follows the momentum of her body, and – worst of all – the sensation of her blood hitting his armor. Cullen would be close enough to catch the spray, there was no doubt about that, and the idea of finding specks of her blood in hidden creases of his armor days later almost made him sick.

He watched Ebrisa's face intently, seeking for any shift that would indicate she was waking. She looked so fragile and sad, as if she knew what was about to happen to her. Cullen's jaw clenched, pleading silently for the mage to not give up, for her to return to him. The thought was quickly pushed aside at the sight of tears dripping off the woman's petite nose and he shot out a hand to stay his subordinate.

Hugh halted his strike, his arms awkward around his head as he darted his eyes back and forth between his captain and his commander. Cullen didn't give anyone the chance to question, quickly rushing out “She's back.” Half a moment later, Ebrisa fell out of the trance and limply to the side on the cold floor with an echoing plop. The room was quiet as they stared, most watched the mage who'd narrowly escaped execution but several leveled scrutinizing gazes at the knight-captain.

The silence was broken by a very audible sigh from the first enchanter, the sound ending the tension in the room. “Well, that was certainly too close for comfort,” Orsino said to no one in particular.

Meredith rolled back her shoulders to rid some of the stress that had taken root there. “Agreed. We thought the girl not yet ready, but it appears we were wrong.”

The elf let out a tired chuckle. “I do not usually enjoy the feeling, but I will gladly accept it this time.”

She smirked just a little in agreement before directing her attention back across the room. “Ser Hugh, take Trevelyan back to her quarters. The need for quarantine is over.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” the brunette responded quickly as he secured his weapon away. He stooped down and slipped his arms under the sleeping mage's own, pulling her upright and adjusting his grip. Hugh stood and began to move backwards, dragging the woman from the room with more awkwardness than when he stood over her waiting for the signal to strike.

Meredith released a short huff of irritation at the attempt. “Cullen, go with Ser Hugh to ensure Trevelyan gets to her room in one piece.” There was a rather loud snort from one of the other templars, but none would later admit to doing it.

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Cullen called out as he left the room and caught up with the brunette. He rolled his eyes a little at Hugh before signaling him to stop. The knight-captain bent down and took hold of the mage's legs, nodding at the other templar to continue on.

“Oh, this is much easier,” Hugh sighed. He continually looked over his shoulder to see where he was going as they moved through the Gallows. “Still pretty awkward though.”

“If you had a better grip, I'm sure you could carry her on your own,” Cullen said while eying the questionable hold the younger man had on the mage's arms. “Trevelyan isn't exactly heavy, after all.”

Hugh stopped and eased the woman back to the ground, Cullen following suit. “I suppose that's true. Ser Carver said most of her weight was in her hair.” The brunette wrapped his arms around the mage's torso and stood back up, pulling her back flush against his chest and still needing to drag her a little. Ebrisa's head lulled to the side, pulling her weight off balance and forcing Hugh to adjust his grip and pull her higher.

Cullen bristled slightly. “Maker's Breath, Hugh,” he snapped. “Have you never carried someone before? She's a person, not a rug.”

Hugh nearly dropped said person. “They're usually not unconscious...”

“I'll take over,” Cullen sighed. The brunette tried his best to assist the transfer, embarrassed for lacking the ability to fulfill his task. “There are several ways you can carry someone, and while what you were doing would be fine for pulling an ally to safety on the battle field, its not the best for long distance. Or for stairs.”

“Right...” Hugh mumbled. “I did forget about the stairs...”

Cullen held one arm under the mage's knees and wrapped the other around her back, resting his hand on her shoulder. “If you're in a hurry, you can toss someone over your shoulder or under your arm. Carrying someone on your back and holding their legs around your waist is a good option, but you need to be mindful to lean forward so they don't fall off.” He stood up with a near inaudible grunt, holding Ebrisa to his chest. “But, because of stairs and her robes, this is the most practical.”

Hugh nodded, filing the information away for future use. “Should I – um – can I help in any way?”

“You've been on edge for long enough. Go rest, Hugh.” Cullen nodded his head in the direction of the barracks.

The brunette let out a grateful sigh. “Thank you, ser.” He saluted, then headed down the corridor as the officer moved in the opposite direction.

Cullen adjusted his hold just a little, the action earning a responsive motion from the mage. Ebrisa shifted in his arms, moving her shoulders to a more comfortable angle and nuzzling her cheek against the smoothness of his chest plate. She released a tiny noise that Cullen couldn't quite categorize – some sort of moan or whimper – but whatever it was, it sounded contented. He couldn't help the heating of his cheeks from the unexpected sound but refused to address it and focused fully on getting the mage to her quarters.

In truth, Cullen hadn't carried anyone in this manner for some time and should have let Hugh continue to try, as Meredith had only ordered him to assist the struggling templar. He should have remained indifferent as Hugh dragged the mage and nearly dislocated her shoulders. He should have kept calm as Hugh pressed her tightly against himself and ignore the clumsy hand that, in all likelihood, _unintentionally_ groped the mage. But Cullen hadn't acted the way he knew he should have. He was inexplicably angry with Hugh for lugging Ebrisa around like a thing instead of like a person, instead of like a woman... instead of like _Ebrisa._

It was only the complete look of innocent confusion on the young templar's face that quelled Cullen's anger to a mere snap and allowed him to take control of the situation. If it had been a more experienced templar there, they would have called Cullen out for his behavior, and rightfully so. He knew he wasn't acting like a proper templar, officer or otherwise, and cradled the reason in his arms at that very moment.

He showed more concern for Ebrisa than he should – more than was appropriate – and far more than any of his other charges. She'd suffered under his watch already and he was determined to not fail again. It was a templar's duty to protect everyone in the Circle, to keep all safe. He had to keep her safe.

 

Cullen managed to open the door to Ebrisa's quarters with only a little bit of awkward maneuvering, the light from the corridor spilling into the dark room. Vemara lay in a bundled ball of blankets on the bed closest to the door, making no movement as Cullen crossed the space to deposit her roommate on the other bed. He tugged the covers back just as awkwardly as he had opened the door, then lay Ebrisa gently on the mattress and pulled the blanket over her. That's when he should have left.

He took a moment to brush the mess of hair from her face, the dim light in the room being enough to make out the softness of her features. Her lashes held just the faintest remnants of her earlier tears, the tiny drops being all that saved her life. Cullen couldn't help but wonder what had happened in her Harrowing, what had caused the tears that stayed the sword. Ebrisa turned her head into his light touch, pressing her cheek against the leather underside of his gauntlet. He should have left then, too.

Ebrisa made that content sound again and Cullen sucked in a breath as he was suddenly aware of three overwhelming notions. First, was that Ebrisa had only narrowly escaped death that night and if Cullen had acted just a moment later, he wouldn't be able to look at her now, or ever again. Secondly, was that her beautiful, peaceful face was incredibly close to his own. The final thought in his mind was again of his dream and how different the two mages in it were.

Surana was confident in her ability, quick to laugh and quick to anger – a bit like Hawke, if Cullen thought about it too much, which he tried desperately _not_ to do. In his idealistic days, she had been absolutely perfect in his eyes, but he never so much as held her hand before the Circle fell and she, like so many others, died.

Ebrisa was timid, hesitant to use her magic. That's not to say she was weak, just that fighting always seemed like the last option for her. Her expression was usually calm and pleasant, but the moments in which she displayed her true emotions were by far more pleasing. A soft giggle, a flustered pout, a heated, chastising remark that was only there out of concern for the target – these things proved her more than a distant figure to be idolized. These made her real, made her something tangible, and Cullen was struck with the urge to feel her before she slipped away, too.

He gently held her cheek, lightly brushing the covered pad of his thumb over her skin as he leaned in and shortened the distance between them. All the doubtful and chastising thoughts left his mind, leaving behind only the simple desire to keep Ebrisa safe, to see her happy, and to share just a bit of her warmth. They were so close now that Cullen could feel her calm, even breath against his lips.

He realized then that they had never touched skin-to-skin. While he had felt her warmth through the leather of his gloves or the armor padding on his upper arm, he had no idea if she felt as soft as she looked. There had always been layers between them, and even when she clung to him in Quentin's lair, he had been fully armored while she-

He pulled away so quickly he nearly fell over, retracting his hand from her face and sliding it over his own. Cullen left the room loudly and quickly, almost slamming the door in his haste to get away and return to his own quarters. His pulse thundered in his ears and the briefly quietened negative thoughts in his head came back with full force.

Maker's Breath, he had almost kissed her. He had wanted to claim her lips with his own, wanted to feel how soft she was, wanted to drink in her warmth and find out what she tasted like. He had wanted to draw out more of those noises from her. Ebrisa was asleep, she couldn't have stopped him. She couldn't say no, and he was going to kiss her anyways. Cullen felt sick, disappointed and disgusted with himself.

Ebrisa barely survived the Harrowing, something she only had to go through so unprepared because of Quentin's blood magic. It hadn't even been a week since the maleficar had stripped Ebrisa of her control, and Cullen was selfishly thinking of what he wanted to take from her, too. How could he claim his motives were anything but corrupted when, after everything Ebrisa went through with Quentin, Cullen was going to do the same? The notion that kissing the mage was against any number of protocols was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, because this had nothing to do with her being a mage and him a templar. He was going to take, to steal, to force. He was going to act without any concern for what she wanted.

Cullen wasn't sure how he managed to get to his room or remove his armor with the whirlwind of thoughts circling in his head, but before he knew it he was laying in his own bed stripped down to his breeches. He needed to go to service first thing in the morning, go to confession and try to rid himself of this lapse in judgment.

All of those things he wanted with that kiss... he still wanted, but he could no longer trust himself to not simply take them.

 


	15. Transition

The near instant the landscape of the Harrowing faded away, Ebrisa felt the warmth of her fortress's fireplace. She blinked past her tears at the familiar surroundings and took comfort in her solitude as she curled up on the stone floor to watch the dancing flames. The way the light and heat dipped and swayed always put her in a soothing sort of trance and she counted on that now to banish the pain in her heart.

Ebrisa had not been prepared for that test – not in the least – but the skills she needed were not something the Circle could have taught her. She had no confidence, no self-awareness, and she trusted far too easily. The first being she came in contact with was her true opponent, spending their time together building a rapport so Ebrisa wouldn't be suspicious of its intentions. Desire's offer had been so tempting, especially after Despair's brutal emotional assault, and the mage had surprised herself in declining. Ultimately, it was the idea that she didn't deserve the love the demon had peddled that gave her the resolve to refuse.

“I am so proud of you, sweetling,” _Mother_ whispered, suddenly very close to Ebrisa and the mage scrambled away in a panic, the fabric of her dress tangling between her legs as she did so.

“St-stay back!” She was flush against the sofa, rug kicked askew from her frantic backpedaling.

The spirit recoiled, holding a hand to her chest. “Dear one? You have passed your Harrowing, the ordeal is over. Calm, now, calm.”

Ebrisa shook her head, but found she could move little more than that. “What are you, really? Show me your true form, spirit.”

“This... this _is_ my true form,” Mother mumbled, hurt seeping into her voice and overtaking her expression.

“No,” the mage's denial wasn't nearly as firm as she intended. “You are not Galatea Lanmour Trevelyan. Mother is not dead. You are not her spirit, you only mock it.” Ebrisa tried her best to hide the quivering of her voice and the general shaking of her frame. “You... you chose that form because you knew I would be vulnerable to it. You tried to trick me, because you want something from me.”

The spirit let out a long, slow breath and looked into the same fire Ebrisa had been gazing at earlier, as if trying to find the same comfort. “I appear as I did in life. I did not claim to be Galatea; it was you that named me. I prefer to look like this, but if it would ease your discomfort...”

Cracks began webbing out over the spirit's body, light seeping through them and expanding the splits in fabric and flesh until the brightness was blinding and Ebrisa had to look away. When she returned her gaze to the spirit, it held its arms in front of itself, as if ashamed by the indigo appearance it now bore. Its shape remained relatively the same, human and feminine, and the hair danced around the spirit's head like a blue-purple flames wafting in the air.

Ebrisa gasped quietly in recognition, the initial sense of trepidation she felt when the spirit arrived slipping away. “I saw you. You were following me during my Harrowing...”

The spirit nodded, white eyes lowering. “I wanted to warn you about the demon, but feared what my interference would mean for the test. Could the templars tell on the other side? Would my involvement fail you? I couldn't risk you coming to harm because of me, so I stayed as close as I dared and watched.”

Realization hit the mage suddenly and she leaned away from the upholstered piece of furniture. “That was you, wasn't it, who recited the Chant?”

“It seemed like a safe nudge in the right direction. A way to indirectly help while still letting you handle it,” the spirit said softly, returning her gaze to Ebrisa's and kneeling down before the mage. “Standing by as those demons spoke to you like that was... very difficult. Just know that I would not have let either have you. Any being of the Fade that wishes to approach you has to get through _me_ first, and I am not so easily beaten.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ebrisa sat in the quiet of the library, staring at the chess board before her and idly twisting the lyrium infused ring on her finger. It bore the crest of the Circle of Magi and rested on her left hand, marking her as a harrowed mage to the world and reminding her that this was the only band that would ever grace that ring finger. When she awoke in the late morning after her Harrowing, Ebrisa was sent to see the first enchanter. Orsino presented her with the ring and some new mage robes to replace her apprentice garments, taking a moment to congratulate her and explain how her life would proceed now.

She would no longer take group lessons, but instead spend time with mentors to aid her in choosing a specialization to pursue. The lessons she did take were short, as few enchanters were trusted enough to be mentors and had to take several mages under their tutelage, and most of the day was spent by herself. Ebrisa missed her old routine and the forced interactions it brought, missed the feigned concern from sparring partners when her defensive spell broke too soon under their attack.

These feelings of loneliness had always been there, but Ebrisa was able to bury them under her studies and ease the pain with the presence of Vemara and Edan. She had been moved out of the apprentice wing, given a small room of her own and hesitated to approach the children during meal times. They had been making friends and whenever Ebrisa did try to eat with Vemara or Edan, those new friends would now scatter. It was unfair of her to make them choose between her and their peers, so she took the decision out of their hands and arrived at meals early to claim a corner by herself. Whenever she saw the short elf or young teen head her way in the dining hall, she'd make as though she was finished – regardless of how much she had actually eaten – and clear her tray. After all, she was a _substitute mother_ for them, and mother's needed to give their children space to grow up.

Meredith had ordered Shep and Cade to remain silent about Quentin, but from the cold glares Ebrisa now received from templars – many of whom used to chat politely with her while she tended the yards – it was clear they were at least aware of her part in Carver's absence. She had been there when his mother was murdered and she did nothing to help. Ebrisa was seemingly being rewarded while their brother was in mourning and they were now giving her the distance that always should have been there. Every templar was.

She'd not even seen Cullen since he brought her back to the Gallows. A faint part of her insisted he had been present during her Harrowing, but so much of the night prior to entering the Fade was a blur and she had likely imagined it in an attempt to find some sort of comfort in the ordeal. Cullen undoubtedly knew everything that had happened, being a confidant of the Knight-Commander, and Ebrisa didn't know if his avoidance of her was because of what Quentin did or what she did. One thing was for certain – if she couldn't talk to Cullen, she could never apologize for her actions. Hopefully, Cullen was staying away because of her actions. She could do something about _her_ actions...

Though she'd technically beaten Despair and Desire in her Harrowing, Ebrisa couldn't shake the feeling that they had really been the ones to defeat her. Their words echoed in her mind, haunted her thoughts constantly, and painfully gripped her heart. The demons' taunting would not leave her, because they stung with the truth, no matter how much Mother tried to erase that notion from her mind.

Ebrisa slid a white rook a few spaces on the board, then stood up and moved to the other side of the small table. She sat on the cold stool and studied the black pieces, trying to decide what move to counter herself with. It would be another hour until the evening service, the only part of her routine Ebrisa managed to keep in the transition from apprentice to mage, and she clung to it desperately. She was uncertain if she did so to defy Despair and Desire, or because they were right.

She was weak, tainted, and so very, very alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Two weeks into her new arrangement and Ebrisa was still trying to adjust. She was finishing her notes on the fading summer flowers of the yard, jotting down any last minuet observations to better plan for next year. She took a cutting from each flower bed and pressed them into her small journal for future reference in case her notes weren't sufficient enough. Through all of the changes and doubts, gardening still provided her with some much needed calm.

“I guess the seasons really are changing,” a quiet voice murmured behind her, breaking Ebrisa from her own musings.

She looked over her shoulder, catching sight of templar armor, and quickly gathered up her supplies. “A-apologies. I'll be out of your way in just a moment.”

“Actually,” Carver slowly drew out the word. “I was looking for you.”

Ebrisa stilled her movements and braced for whatever angry words the templar was going to throw at her. “Well... you found me.”

The man ruffled his hair a little, obviously feeling just as uncomfortable as she was. “That's kind of it. I'm glad I was one of the people who went searching for you. I know its a strange thing to say, but if you didn't go missing... I wouldn't have been there for my mother's last moments.”

She felt her mouth go dry, unable to form any sort of reply.

“As awful as seeing her like that was,” Carver continued. “As painful as it was to know what happened to her, it would hurt so much more if I wasn't there. I got to say goodbye. I got to hear her say she was proud of me, that she loved me, one more time.” He cleared his throat. “So, um, thank you...”

He just stood there for a few minuets, waiting for some kind of response or acknowledgment from the mage. When none came, he turned and left the yard, leaving her alone once again.

Carver hadn't blamed her, but thanked her. He was grateful that she was... no. He must not know about what happened, must have been too preoccupied to notice her attacking one of their own.

But... was he wrong?

She lowered her head and resumed her work, trying to focus on the flower bed instead of the implications of Carver's words. It was clear no templar believed Ser Emeric about the serial killer and Meredith would have been hard to convince to allow Carver out to search the city with his sister for Leandra. If Ebrisa had not been taken from the Gallows, no templar would have been wandering the streets that night. Carver would have heard everything after the fact, robbed of a final farewell with his loved one.

Ebrisa couldn't help but think back to something Sebastian had said while consoling her about her part in Feynriel's fate. _“Sometimes it is hard to see the Maker's hand in things.”_

~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Knight-Captain, ser!” Vemara called out loudly, running down the corridor with her hand in the air as if asking a question during lessons.

Cullen stopped, nearly out of the Mage Hall and beyond the young apprentice's reach, and turned around. Upon seeing the elf, he automatically knew what – or rather, who – the conversation would be about. “Petit,” he nearly sighed, tired of being chased by the child. “What is it?”

“Please, ser, can't you move Ebrisa back to my room? It gets lonely at night and I never see her anymore.” Vemara pouted, hoping the expression would help her cause.

“As Ser Thrask _and_ Ser Ruvena have both told you already, that can't happen.” Cullen folded his arms, letting the elf know her puffed out lips were doing nothing to sway him. “Apprentices and mages sleep in different wings. You're on different schedules with different studies.”

“But she's so sad,” Vemara mumbled.

The elven child was not the only one to mention the change, though she was the first to tell Cullen directly. He'd overheard things from mages, templars, and even the visiting clergy that gave him pause but he maintained his course of action to stay away from Ebri- from Trevelyan. “Lots of people get sad, Petit. She's just adjusting.”

“Its more than that. She doesn't even _pretend_ to smile anymore.” Vemara shook her head, the dark strands of her hair getting caught around her long ears. When she raised her eyes back to the templar, she was almost glaring. “Why are you acting this way?”

“What way?” Cullen couldn't help but shrink back just a little.

“Like you don't care,” she explained with a wave of her hand. “I know you do.”

He tried to control the widening of his eyes and the faint heating of his cheeks. “The well being of their charges is, of course, important to all templars. Her health is fine, she's passed the Harrowing, and if there was any concern for her education, one of her mentors would have brought it to the first enchanter's attention.”

The child was unconvinced and her next few words explained precisely why. “I saw you.”

“Saw me?” Cullen felt a sense of dread seep in, hoping the girl was referring to something less incriminating that he could explain away.

“I woke up when you carried Ebrisa into the room.”

He quickly darted his eyes around the corridor, looking for other people that might hear them. Cullen lowered his voice and his head before addressing the child. “Whatever you think you might have seen, I didn't – that is – nothing happened. I only brought her back after her Harrowing. Templars do that all the time.”

Vemara sighed and rolled her eyes. “I know there are those silly rules you two are so concerned with, but can't you at least talk to her? Isn't _that_ allowed? She needs a friend, and she won't let me be one anymore.”

The knight-captain was silent and still for so long that Vemara feared she had broken him, but Cullen finally straightened and set a firm frown on his now controlled features. “I am expected elsewhere. Afternoon lessons are about to begin, Petit. You best be on your way as well.”

Reluctantly, the elf turned around and left to collect her books, leaving Cullen alone in the corridor with his thoughts and his doubts.

~~~~~~~~  
Sister Selby was nearing the end of the service, once again glancing over to the silent figure in the back of the chapel. From what she understood, Ebrisa had continued to attend both services every day, but hadn't participated since her Harrowing. The congregation had grown to the handful of members it was due in large part to the mage's dedication and efforts on holidays when the clergy could not be present and it could be argued that Ebrisa's voice lead the service more effectively than the visiting sisters. Selby never felt slighted by the idea, knowing the woman was strong in the faith, so seeing Ebrisa simply going through the motions now made her heart ache.

Ebrisa sat on the pew with a rigid posture, hands clasped and head bowed. She kept her eyes closed and tried to focus on the Chant, letting the words rhythmically wash over her. She was so focused on the service, so intent on blocking out her thoughts and surroundings, that she didn't notice the creaking wood as someone sat down. When Sister Selby concluded the service, Ebrisa let her senses slowly expand to the rest of the world and waited for the room to clear of noise before opening her eyes. When she did, she was startled to not only see a templar sitting beside her, but for it to be Cullen. She tried not to think too much on what his appearance meant, but she knew he did not come to the chapel causally and that there were several places he could have sat down.

The back pew was set against a pillar and only opened on one side, meaning that, intentionally or not, she was boxed in and unable to leave without either climbing over the pew in front of her or the man beside her. Neither option was very dignified, but the longer Cullen sat there in silence, the more tempting vaulting over the pew seemed.

“Knight-Captain?” Ebrisa gently prodded. “I, um, I can't leave.” Perhaps he didn't realize he was doing it.

Cullen took a deep breath but didn't get up. “I heard you haven't been yourself recently,” he began softly. “I can understand why, but...” Cullen rubbed his neck, still not looking at the mage. “I thought you might wish to talk to someone.”

Ebrisa took in his stiff posture and the awkward way he was avoiding even glancing in her general direction and felt a strange stab in her chest. She had thought that having him near would be a pleasant feeling, grant her some of the warmth she'd been missing, but seeing him still so distant somehow hurt more than it helped. He must have been ordered to check on her, a follow up on the Harrowing or double-checking there were no ill effects from the blood binding.

“Are you offering to take me to the Chantry?”

“That's not what I had in mind,” Cullen said slowly, shifting on the pew, but still not getting up.

“Then what did you mean?” She found herself avoiding his gaze as much as he was avoiding hers. She couldn't stand the thought of seeing the disgust or disdain he surely harbored for her now. How was Cullen even able to sit there if he couldn't look at her?

“I- I thought... maybe I would be sufficient.” Cullen cleared his throat. “But if going to the Chantry is what you need, I can try and make some time or arrange an escort tomorrow,” he hurriedly added, suddenly very aware of the stuffiness of the room. This was a stupid idea. How had he let a child talk him into this? He stood to leave, berating himself.

“Wait!” Ebrisa caught his hand, acting without thinking, and found herself frozen as his amber eyes finally met her emerald ones. She couldn't form any words, not even breathing for fear that the slightest movement would have Cullen breaking free of her desperate grip around his fingers and send him on his way. When air became too vital a need, she gasped in a large breath and dropped his hand, tearing her eyes away. “I... I want to apologize to you.”

Cullen sat back down, frowning in confusion. “To me? What for?”

“For the way I acted on the trek back to the Gallows,” she began, barely above a whisper. “I put you in an awkward situation, doing something so inappropriate in front of so many people – many of whom were your subordinates. I- I should have been more respectful to your position, Knight-Captain.”

“Hang that,” Cullen snapped, causing Ebrisa to wince. “You don't have to – are you serious? I should be apologizing to _you_. If I – if _any of us –_ had listen to Emeric, we could have caught Quentin earlier. We could have stopped him before he... before he took you.”

“No, the timing... it worked out, right? You met up with Messere Hawke so she could be with her brother when they found Messere Leandra.” Ebrisa kept her head bowed and fiddled with her ring. “Ser Carver said he was glad he was there with her in the end, so... so what happened to me was a- a good thing.”

“Trevelyan, you don't mean that.”

“If I hadn't been taken, they wouldn't have been together... it was a good thing.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried to laugh as the tears started. “So, its fine...”

“It's not!” Cullen took hold of her face with both hands, forcing her to look at him and see the earnestness in his eyes. “What happened to you is _not_ a good thing, its _not_ fine, and you _don't_ have to apologize for it. Being trapped, tortured, violated... victims aren't responsible for what happens to them. We _aren't_ to blame.”

Ebrisa blinked at the increasing water in her eyes, studying the templar who was so very close and realizing that he wasn't looking at her with pity or sympathy, but empathy. He had said _we_... something had happened to him, too. He understood. Ebrisa tried to choke back a sob as she lost control of her emotions and Cullen released his hold, allowing her to curl against his chest.

When she clung to him this time, he did offer her some of the comfort she sought and lightly rubbed a hand over her back. As Cullen quietly soothed the tears, Ebrisa felt that maybe she wasn't as alone as she thought.

 


	16. Blame

Senior Enchanter Oswall had raved about Trevelyan's aptitude for the creation school, but Anita was having trouble finding validity to his claims with her newest pupil. True, when the young woman wove small healing spells or anything that pulled from her own strength, she produced results with a decent speed, but _her_ magic wasn't the issue. Anita reminded herself to be patient with the mage, knowing there was some sort of incident that had rushed the Harrowing and that she was likely not ready for the stronger spells.

Anita brushed her copper hair behind her ear and sighed just quietly enough to not be rude as her pupil once again tried to call forth the healing aura. “Let's take a small break from that, Trevelyan.” She motioned to one of the benches in the yard, indicating for the blonde to take a seat before sitting on it herself.

“I'm sorry, Enchanter Anita,” Ebrisa said with an almost palpable remorse. “I'm really focusing, but it just doesn't want to come. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong.”

The red-head held back an inappropriate snort. “That's precisely it. _You're_ doing it. I've already explained several times that Spirit Healers do not work alone.”

“The Fade spirits...”

“It _is_ in the name.” Anita leaned back on her hands, gripping the edge of the bench with her fingers. “Mages can only do so much on their own. True healing – mending bones, repairing ruptured organs, restoring life force before its truly vanishes – that requires immense focus and sometimes power beyond ourselves. Power beyond mortals.”

Ebrisa chewed on her lip and shifted uncomfortably on the cold stone bench. “But isn't that a bit like... like making a deal with demons? Doesn't that sort of connection with the Fade make one vulnerable to possession?”

“There in lies the problem with the specialization and why its under so much scrutiny by templars. Many mages would rather use their gift to feel powerful, avoid the risk altogether, and as such few end up going down this path. There _are_ benevolent spirits in the Fade, Trevelyan. Didn't you see any during your Harrowing? I met a Spirit of Faith, myself.”

Ebrisa, of course, knew of such goodly spirits and had read numerous accounts of mage interactions with them. The Maker's first children were not all corrupted and twisted when He turned from them to make mortals and it was foolish to think otherwise. The reason she had believed Desire when it claimed to be a Spirit of Love was because she wanted to believe someone would aide her during her test. She wanted to believe the kind things the creature was saying. When those words turned mocking, she still believed them.

“How do you know the spirits are really what they say they are?” Ebrisa drifted her eyes to the now empty patches of soil her flowers had brightened only a week ago. “How do you know its not a trick?”

Anita studied the younger woman, watching the worry and betrayal slip across her features. “In dreams, demons can be very persuasive and very clever. If they offer something, it is always conditional. They _always_ want something.” She stood up from the bench and took a few short steps out of the shade to stand in the sunlight. “In the waking world, your mind is more aware – harder to deceive. You can hear the catch in a demon's aide. But goodly spirits will never ask you for anything, they will help because they _want to help_. There is a chance you can be misled, yes, but you just have to trust your instincts.” Anita turned back to her pupil, smirking slightly. “Its a matter of faith. Sometimes, literally.”

Wanting power or wanting to help. Anita had been talking about spirits and demons, but she might as well have been talking about mages and asking Ebrisa which she preferred being. The blonde abhorred using her magic to harm, but understood there would be times it was necessary. She did not want to spend her life perfecting the art of devastation – even in defense of others – when she could be doing something constructive with it instead. If she could overcome her trepidation of seeking aide from across the Veil, then she could dedicate her meager talents to serving the public. If she trained hard enough and gained the Circle's approval, then she could turn this curse on her heritage into something positive. If she could have faith that there were benevolent spirits out there - like _Mother -_ who only wanted to help, then maybe she could show people she only wanted the same.

Ebrisa closed her eyes, silently going over the incantation as her mind reached out for the extra strength. Slowly, cautiously, she opened up her heart to the Fade and sent out a small plea through the connection she was born with. There was a soft pulse in return, like an echoing heartbeat, and Ebrisa heard her mentor make a hum of approval. As quickly as the sensation had come, it disappeared and the mage blinked her eyes back open.

“Finally, some progress!” Anita laughed, planting a hand firmly on her hip. “It was brief, but you got that aura up nice and proper. Maybe by the end of the week you can have it going for a full minute.”

The blonde rubbed at her forehead, her nerves rattled from the unexpected answer to her request. It had come so quickly and felt so warm, so comforting, like a hug... It made her wonder what sort of spirit had responded to her call and if it would always feel so... accepting. The connection was so short that Ebrisa wasn't sure if it was her responding to the spirit, or it approving of her.

~~~~~~~~~~  
If the past year had taught Cullen anything, it was that he was a terrible judge of character. His original irritation at not pursuing the claims against Ser Varnell further escalated to near self-loathing since reading that damn report. Mother Petrice had played a much larger part in the plot against the Qunari than he'd realized and carried on with it – albeit less brazenly – after Varnell's death. Until last night.

Cullen had failed to see her corruption, had trusted her simply because she was a mother of the Chantry, and now another mob of misguided zealots were dead. Petrice was dead. The Viscount's son, Saemus, was dead. The Chantry was stained with their blood because of a plot he could have discovered months ago if he'd only been willing to see. If he hadn't been so trusting and acted in the real, then Hawke wouldn't have had to swoop in and clean up yet another mess.

That's how she described it, too. A swoop, and a mess.

Mia's letters were providing little comfort this time, even the newest addition which he had yet to reply to failed to pull him away from the man he was now. His sister had been his biggest supporter growing up and not only encouraged his dream of being a templar, but rallied Branson and Rosalie to help him reach it. She still wrote him like he was the thirteen-year-old idealistic twerp who left Honnleath, and he tried to not let too much of his true self slip out in his responses, as few and far between as they were. He was so much not the brother she knew and he didn't have the heart to break hers by telling her as much.

“Knight-Captain?”

Cullen lifted his gaze to the doorway, not nearly as surprised as he should have been to see the source of his other lapse in judgment – Ebrisa. She was in mage robes, but wore a simple smock over them to keep clean with a wooden bucket hanging on one arm and a large, canvas bundle in the other. Her hair was pulled back, braided and looped into a secure bun at the base of her neck, a much more elaborate style than she usually sported, likely due to the extra free time she had now.

When he made no move to leave or speak, only acknowledging her with his quick visual assessment of her appearance, Ebrisa entered the yard and knelt down by the flowerbed furthest from him. She removed the bucket from her arm and rolled out the bundle of fabric, revealing her gardening tools and several sheets of burlap. Cullen made no indication that he wanted to be alone, but he hadn't started a conversation either and after the awkward way she had ended their last one, Ebrisa was hesitant to initiate.

She worked as quietly as possible, carefully digging around the base of the dying plants to reach their web of roots and shaking loose as much dirt as she could before setting the sprouted bulb on the burlap. Cullen watched her as she worked, eying the sharp spade in her hand and the gentle way she moved it through the ground, knowing it could easily slip between the gaps in his armor if she rushed him. He scrutinized her familiarity with the small pruning knife as she pressed its edge through the withered stem, exerting just enough pressure to cut the plant and not her thumb, wondering if she would use the same tender grip slashing the blade across his throat.

Anything – everything – could be a weapon, which is why tools of all kinds were so closely guarded. This one mage was the exception to that rule, approved by Meredith to not only use the sharp instruments whenever she wished, but to do so without supervision. Looking at it objectively, it was a ridiculous and dangerous liberty. What was to stop this mage from using her knife on others? From slicing her own flesh and summoning a terrible creature with blood magic?

Mages were dangerous and had to be watched.

Just like how Chantry clerics were incapable of deception and murder.

Cullen nearly snorted at the generalizations, knowing full well that neither Ebrisa nor Petrice fit them. He thought back to the first time he had caught Ebrisa break a rule and used a pair of pruning sheers simply because she had wanted to be useful and make the yards look nicer. Even then, she had shown no fear of him. Oh, she stuttered and stumbled over herself, but that had been purely for her own mistakes and she made no protest to whatever punishment she would receive. He should have punished her, but he didn't. Cullen was unsure if it was because she had been so new to the Gallows or because she genuinely seemed to be remorseful, but he'd helped her complete her task.

Ebrisa had earned Meredith's trust over the years, and it was more or less Cullen's doing. If he'd simply taken the sheers and left instead of returning with someone to supervise her, then Ebrisa would have ended her gardening endeavor before it really began and the Knight-Commander wouldn't have granted her any special treatment – possibly never even interacting with her directly. It was almost too easy to visualize – Ebrisa quietly going through her apprenticeship with no conflicts with templars and being too reserved to protest any issues with her peers. Completely disappearing into the background as just another mage and having no cause to ever leave the Circle or speak directly to Meredith. She'd still go to service in the chapel of course, but would she have been able to inspire others to do the same?

As Ebrisa moved to the other flowerbed and settled down only a few feet from where Cullen sat on the bench, he was struck with the sudden realization that he wouldn't have noticed her in the background. She'd just be a name that popped up in quarterly reports he'd struggle to associate a face to. Maybe he would remember the young girl escorted to the Gallows by Aveline with two small children or the horrified expression on her face as she hit him with a small branch, but those were in her first year. They gave a glimpse of her character, but not enough to leave a lasting impression on their own and she'd slip away into obscurity.

Maybe she'd still fall under whatever sickness had claimed Feynriel, but Meredith would not have granted her leave to the Chantry... Ebrisa likely wouldn't have even felt confident enough to ask. She'd suffer the guilt quietly, but if she never went to the Chantry, Quentin never would have known about her... Cullen couldn't help but think that – though her life would have been much different – Ebrisa may have been better off if he'd treated her like a normal mage from the beginning.

“Blaming yourself again?”

Cullen straightened and finally looked at something besides the mage. He tried to speak, but found his mouth oddly dry.

“I heard from Sister Anabel at service this morning,” Ebrisa continued softly as she gathered the iris bulbs. “Mother Petrice fooled many people – even the Grand Cleric could not see what was happening until it already came to a head. They spent every day together, worked beside each other, and Revered Mother Elthina could see the danger no more than you.” She dared a sympathetic look over her shoulder, but Cullen would not meet it.

The Grand Cleric was _supposed_ to see the best in people and have faith in their good nature, _he_ was supposed to know better.

“Knight-Captain, your part in this tragedy is so minute it may as well not exist.” Ebrisa turned around fully on the pave stones to better address the man. “Months ago you were investigating rumors about someone who didn't even work with Mother Petrice anymore. She was a small character reference and, by all accounts, not directly involved for some time. There was no reason to suspect her.”

Cullen leaned back on the bench, looking up at the grey sky and briefly noting it was much too dark for still being so early in the day. He had heard some of Petrice's sermons – her detest for the Qunari was evident – and he should have realized what that meant. He should have known she was hiding something. When Cullen directed his attention back to the mage, he was a little startled to see her frowning at him disapprovingly.

“Knight-Captain,” she said with a tone Cullen could only classify as scolding. “Despite whatever unrealistic standards you hold yourself to, there is only one _truly_ omniscient individual, and He is currently absent.”

Cullen could feel the smirk trying to break free the longer he looked at the mage, so he returned his gaze to Mia's letters and hid behind the sheets before he cracked. Ebrisa just seemed to have an answer for everything, so long as it wasn't her own problem. He wondered briefly how that could be possible, how she could encourage others but deny herself the same courtesy.

She turned back to her work, taking the hint that the one-sided conversation was over, and continued to clear the soil. Cullen stole a glance at her from time to time as he pretended to read, and went back to his earlier pondering. Yes, Ebrisa's life would have been different if he had not interfered, but his own would have been, too. He would have been deprived her little pep talks, reduced to seeking comfort from only the letters his siblings sent, and he would have been robbed of the levity and warmth she so easily brought him.

Ebrisa may have been better off and spared quite a bit of hardship, but Cullen knew he was definitely in a better place now that she was in his life, despite the negative implications of that admission.  
~~~~~~~  
The viscount was in a terribly depressed state and barely able to function. For all the years he had spent trying to protect and lead Kirkwall, he had failed where it mattered most and lost his only child. Seneschal Bran had seen to all the arrangements for the funeral service and taken on additional duties that Dumar was no longer able to focus on, allowing the older man a bit of space. Meredith and a small contingent of men would attend the service set to take place later in the day and she couldn't help but wonder how long the Viscount would remain in despair.

A knock on her office door broke Meredith from her silent contemplation and she called out an uninterested invitation. Ebrisa entered the room with a basket in her arms and a hesitant smile. “Knight-Commander, I understand you are to attend Messere Saemus Dumar's funeral today. I hope I'm not being too presumptuous in thinking you haven't any mourning attire?”

Meredith nodded, eying the basket curiously. “My armor will suffice. The city needs to see a figure of strength right now.”

The mage set down the basket and pulled out a long section of black fabric. “I took the liberty of making some sashes for the templars attending. I didn't know how many would be going and most of the edges are unfinished, but I was able to properly hem a cowl for you.” Ebrisa dug through the basket, creasing her brow slightly as she looked. “I thought I set it near the top... ah!” She stood back up and crossed the short distance to the desk, holding out the black hood.

Meredith took the piece from her and inspected it. “Where did you get the fabric?”

“The quartermaster was able to find me quite a few linen sheets that no one would miss and I'd just taken out the iris bulbs the other day, so making the dye from their roots wasn't too difficult.” Ebrisa unconsciously rubbed her stained fingers together, wondering if she'd done something wrong.

The stitching of the hem was incredibly even and time consuming, making the Knight-Commander wonder why the mage had put so much effort into it. “This must have taken a while.”

“Well, its important to show solidarity with the Viscount and the rest of Kirkwall during these difficult times, isn't it?” Ebrisa let out a meek laugh. “Besides, I find myself with quite a bit of free time these days.”

A smirk crept its way across Meredith's face as she looked back up at the mage. “If you're looking for busy work, the troops are lousy with stitching and there's a mountain of shirts and socks that need mending.”

“Oh.” Ebrisa rubbed her forehead, nose wrinkling in mild trepidation. “I-I guess I can do that. They're already clean, I hope?”

The templar chuckled, startling her company and giving her away. “I'm only jesting, Amelia.”

The young woman opened and closed her mouth a few times, hesitant to correct. “Its Ebrisa, Knight-Commander.”

Meredith lifted her head sharply, eyes wide as she paled ever so slightly. “Ye-yes. Of course.” She cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the papers on her desk. “I think I will stick with _Trevelyan._ Far more memorable.”

“Whichever you prefer, Knight-Commander...” Ebrisa shuffled on her feet, a sense of uneasiness settling over the room. “By your leave?”

Meredith nodded and waved her off, thankful that the mage closed the door behind her as she left so the rattled templar could properly come to terms with what had just happened.

 


	17. Beatrix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short, but the next chapter will be action packed!

Every mage had at least a little experience with telekinesis with the Mind Blast spell being one of the first any learn in the Arcane school. The skill is not limited to the desperate escape attempt most overwhelmed mages employ in battle, but also useful for lifting heavy objects or correcting broken things hands can't reach. Telekinetic forces can also be very powerful in a fight, slamming enemies into the ground or flinging attackers across the field, and Kirkwall had a surprisingly large population of mages who did just that. Other Circles dabbled in the school, but the Gallows had nearly perfected the Force Mage classification.

“Focus is key, Trevelyan,” Enchanter Vincent chided as he circled the younger mage. “You know the basics well enough, but to tap into the _real_ strength of this magic, you need to clear out everything else.”

Ebrisa made an uncomfortable noise as she teetered and scrambled to correct her balance. She'd already fallen off the inch-wide piece of wood three times during today's lesson and was determined to not make it an even four. “It's much easier to focus with firmer footing,” she muttered under her breath. The remark earned her a poke on the arm, the light touch being just enough to send her flailing to the ground.

“Easy, yes, but not very helpful.” Vincent crossed his arms and waited for his pupil to recenter on the beam. “Any fool can focus when things are calm and still, but things will rarely be such during battle or crisis. Do you think it will be easy to block out panic as a monster comes charging at you or simple to ignore a mother's plea as her child is trapped under rubble? The instances you need to focus the most will always be when things are loud, your blood is pumping, and emotions are whirling around too quickly to recognize.”

Vincent hadn't been able to get into any of the Force Mage spells during his mentoring of the blonde yet and was beginning to think he never would. Focus was integral to so many spells, but the amount needed for this specialization might be too much for his newest pupil. Maybe she could become a researcher? Her marks had been quite good during her apprenticeship, from what he understood.

Ebrisa locked her eyes on the empty tin cup sitting on the ground as she wobbled once again. Mastery of self was an important lesson and she could definitely appreciate Vincent's dedication to making her learn it, but couldn't he find another way to do so? She hadn't had much luck with balance outside of hopscotch.

Bells began tolling in the distance and Ebrisa turned in the direction of the sound curiously. “What's going on?”

“The Chantry signaling a service,” Vincent sighed, annoyed by the distraction.

While it was perfectly normal to hear the bells summoning the faithful all the way across the harbor on fair weathered days, there was a very strict schedule to it. “It's not time for afternoon service yet.” Ebrisa quietly counted the rings, startled when they exceeded the usual number. “No, something is wrong. Something's happened.”

The tin cup she'd been tasked with lifting from across the room came soaring at her and Ebrisa awkwardly caught it in her hand without looking, still staring off in the direction of the Chantry and trying to figure out what the constant tolling meant.

Vincent smirked at her when she finally tore her eyes away from the distance. “Look at you all standing on one foot and catching projectiles like its nothing. I guess you _can_ focus, when it counts.”

~~~~~~~~~

The Exalted Servant of the Maker, Her Holiness, Divine Beatrix III was dead. Only twelve years after an elaborate plot on her life involving blood mages and dragons, and the woman succumbed to a simple stroke. When the news finally made its way to the Gallows, a strange unease rippled through the fortress like the echoing of the still tolling bells. A division of faith became apparent almost instantly with many individuals – mainly mages – seeming completely unaffected by the news while others walked around in utter disbelief or distress. The sashes Ebrisa had dyed for Saemus' funeral were cut into strips, providing more of the Order with a means to show their mourning by tying the fabric around an arm.

Cullen took the remaining pieces to the chapel, knowing that more than the templars were effected by the news, and expected the room to be filled with mourners. To his surprise, it wasn't, but neither was it empty.

He set the basket on the edge of the back pew and lingered in the doorway, uncertain if he should approach the single figure in the front row both out of respect for her contemplation and because he honestly didn't know what he could possibly say. Feeling the eyes on her, Ebrisa turned her head ever so slightly to acknowledge the presence.

“Knight-Captain.” It wasn't a question, but there was an odd inflection in her voice.

Without twisting fully around to regard the templar, Ebrisa had somehow identified him and made it more or less impossible for him to simply slip away. Cullen hummed in confirmation and reached to the bottom of the cloth pile, tugging free one of the few uncut sashes and taking it with him to the front of the chapel. He hesitated again, intending initially to simply hand over the piece and leave, but his hovering drew Ebrisa's attention and she looked up at him through her lashes. The brief glance was just enough to convey she didn't want to be alone, that she too had thought to find others in the chapel, and Cullen took a seat beside her.

“Here.” He held out the sash without looking. “I didn't think these would be getting so much use so quickly.”

Ebrisa sighed softly and shook out the fabric before carefully wrapping it around her head like a cowl. Cullen had expected her to slip it around her waist or wrap it around her belt straps, and the change made him curious enough to watch her. She looped and tucked the fabric in a very specific way, taking care that each turn was placed exactly so. He'd seen the same styling just recently.

The mage caught his strange look and released a puff of air that almost sounded like laughter. “When Grand Cleric Katerina died, I was only four. It was the first funeral I attended and Mother made me practice for hours in front of the mirror every day leading up to the service until I could arrange the mourning shawl properly.” She slid her hand over the raw edge of the fabric delicately and smiled sadly. “It was much nicer than this, of course. A sheer fabric embroidered in gold thread along the edge... still seems like a silly display of wealth.”

“This is tradition in the Free Marches?” Cullen asked slowly, being unfamiliar with the practice. “I saw many women wearing such things tied similarly during the viscount's son's funeral.” It had only been the nobility to do so, however.

Ebrisa nodded. “Normally it would be secured with a broach bearing the family crest, but I wasn't allowed one when I joined the Circle.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “For obvious reasons.”

He shouldn't have pressed forward with the conversation, he should have left the question in his head unanswered, but there was a growing urge to know more about the woman sitting beside him. Maybe if she wasn't such a mystery, he wouldn't think of her as often. “You are high-born?”

“My father is a well respected noble,” Ebrisa nearly whispered, as though her heritage was a secret. She cracked a small smile and turned to Cullen. “Father told me once that I was supposed to be named Beatrix.”

The man raised a brow, an amused smile of his own taking shape. “Named after the Divine? That's a bit presumptuous, even for nobility.”

“Its tradition on my mother's side for females to take holy names, which is indeed very presumptuous.” Ebrisa held back a giggle at the look of mild mortification that crossed Cullen's face as he realized he'd insulted half of her lineage. “Normally they don't use the _current_ Divine's name, but Mother was apparently very insistent.”

Cullen had to clear his throat before he could speak. “If she was so set on the name, then what changed her mind?”

“I did.” The mage wrapped a loose curl of her golden hair around a finger. “You see, Mother's family all share dark hues of hair and Father's side is filled with warm reds and browns. Neither the Lanmours nor the Trevelyans have had a fair-haired child for generations.” She paused and frowned at something unseen. “The same goes for mages...”

Ebrisa shook the distraction away and returned her gaze back to the templar. “So, there I was, Father's eyes and Mother's nose and unexplainable blonde hair. Beatrix no longer seemed appropriate and Father wanted to go near blasphemous and name me after Andraste.”

“That seems like quite a leap,” Cullen mumbled.

“Well, it was All Soul's Day, so he felt fairly justified.”

Suddenly, Meredith's approval of Ebrisa's yearly trips to the Chantry held a whole new meaning and Cullen couldn't shake the feeling that the Knight-Commander was doing it as a sort of birthday present.

“Mother, however, was far more aware of the implications and talked him down to one of Andraste's daughters.” She leaned back on the pew and sighed. “If I'd only come out a clone of my mother like Aurelia or been a red-head like Emery, I'd be mourning the death of my namesake instead.”

Cullen tried to picture the mage with different colored hair and found that anything else seemed strange – even a slightly lighter or darker shade of blonde was incredibly wrong. “I'm having a difficult time seeing you as a _Beatrix,_ ” Cullen said with an unintended levity. “I'm rather fond of Ebrisa.” He caught the brightness of her cheeks before realizing how his words could be interpreted. “It's a nice name, Trevelyan,” Cullen quickly added in hopes it would correct his intention. “It suits you.”

The mage had fallen quiet again, retreated like the faded flush from her skin, and nodded. Cullen was struck with the urge to say something else, to try and correct himself again and explain... explain what? He wasn't sure what to do or say anymore and mumbled a quick farewell as he excused himself and left the chapel.

Once alone, Ebrisa pondered on his words and found he was both correct and wrong. Ebris was the obedient child of Andraste, forbidden from marrying or inheriting anything and was physically weak. Vivial was the defiant daughter, falling in love with a man named Regulan and bringing so much shame to her family that she was exiled and all but erased from history. Both children of the Prophetess shared parallels with Ebrisa and she couldn't tell which suited her better.

She'd always wondered how Vivial could betray everything her mother stood for and run off with not only a mage, but a Tevinter. Was it a rebellious inclination, or had she truly been able to look past the things the man was and see only him? Were they really in love? Now Ebrisa wondered if she could ever be as lucky as Regulan and find someone to love her – _really_ love her – despite the curse of her own being.  
~~~~~~~~~

The same spirit returned night after night in Ebrisa's dreams, always offering a patient smile and a gentle touch, returning to her insisted mortal appearance that so much resembled Galatea Trevelyan. The spirit, who gladly accepted the name of _Mother_ , acted as a sounding board for the mage's problems regardless of how small they seemed. Mother encouraged Ebrisa to talk about her day, to share even the most inconsequential detail, and offered comfort and advice whenever the mage asked for it.

Most nights they talked, but sometimes they would play a game or pluck at the newly appeared instruments. Ebrisa was a bit hesitant to sit down at the harp, knowing she was out of practice, but Mother insisted that it would do no harm to become familiar with the strings once again. It came as a surprise then, when after months of solo interaction, Ebrisa entered her Fade fortress to find another figure waiting with Mother.

“Sweetling, I hope I am not overstepping my bounds here, but there is someone you should meet.” Mother motioned to the figure beside her. “This is a spirit of compassion.”

Despite being in a dream, the new spirit did not attempt to take a full guise, remaining as she would be seen anywhere else in the Fade. She was pale blue and vaguely feminine in form with what appeared to be short wisps of hair fanning around her face. On that face, was a calm, gentle smile. “I understand this one has a special name with you. You may call me _Sympathy_.”

“Oh,” Ebrisa mumbled before sucking in a breath and rushing to show proper etiquette. She quickly curtseyed to the newcomer and dipped her head. “Pleased to meet you. I am-”

“-I know who you are, child.” Sympathy's voice was like rolling waves, soothing and rhythmic.

“Yes, I suppose you would.” The mage looked between the two spirits. “May I ask what has brought you here?”

Sympathy's smile widened. “Why, you have, of course.”

Ebrisa stiffened, feeling a jolt of panic run up her spine. If she was beginning to draw spirits to her in the Fade, how long would it be before demons followed?

Mother noticed Ebrisa's distress and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to ease it. “You are studying Spirit Healer magic now, are you not? Those spells require you to form bonds with spirits. I have tried to assist you when you call, but I... I am ill suited for the task.”

The mage failed to hide her surprise at that. “You are the one who helps me during lessons?”

“Yes, sweetling, and I will _always_ be there to help you in whatever way I can.” Mother tapped the mage's nose affectionately before retracting her hand and straightening once again. “But, as I said, I am ill suited. My strength needs to be directed in order for you to use it in the waking world. In a true battle, there would be far too many things to focus on for your mind to also instruct me in what to do.”

“That is why she has allowed me here,” Sympathy added. “I have heard your call before, but without permission, I could not answer it.”

The comment both confused and comforted Ebrisa. She had been extremely concerned about opening herself to the Fade and accepting the aid of another being, despite Mother's insistence that any demon would need to get by her first. Ebrisa had always been overly cautious about possession, even more so after her time as Quentin's thrall. To hear spirits could only connect with her if given permission to do so was a relief... but how was Mother doing that?

~~~~~~~~~~  
With the Divine dead, all Grand Clerics were summoned to Orlais to elect a new leader of the faithful. Beatrix had been in failing health for a while and had the foresight to nominate a successor, but the selection was a controversial one. Some felt that – given the dementia Her Holiness had suffered near the end – the nomination could not hold too much credence. Elthina was hesitant to leave Kirkwall during such high tensions and with Dumar still so consumed with despair, but the Grand Consensus effected all Andrastians. Ultimately, she had little choice in the matter and departed across the Waking Sea.

Meredith left nothing to chance and worked with the city guard to ensure more than adequate patrols roamed the city at all hours. The templars and guards were meant to inspire a sense of security as well as deter both action from and against the Qunari. Kirkwall was a veritable powder keg in the wake of so much death and underhanded plotting and Meredith would rather Elthina have a city, not a battlefield, to return to. The Qunari had other ideas.

 


	18. Demands of the Qun

After spying the first plume of smoke rise up from the docks across the harbor, it didn't take long for the Knight-Commander to figure out the horned warriors had finally acted out. She worked with Cullen to formulate a strategy as the lieutenants rushed to organize troops into units. With luck, the patrols already within the city were holding their own and could meet up with the new forces as they arrived. Orsino insisted on helping defend Kirkwall and the Qunari threat was too strong to turn down the team of enchanters he gathered.

The templars were divided into two groups, each taking a different path towards Hightown with securing the viscount being priority. Meredith would lead the troops up the shipping passage and assigned Kerras to manage the others, leaving Cullen behind with the remaining forces to hold the Gallows.

“We know what these Qunari do to their mages,” Meredith hissed. “I would not see our own be subjected to such things.” In truth, she wasn't even certain the heathens would suffer any Circle mage to live and she was determined to not find out.

As soon as Meredith's units were on their way across the harbor, Cullen ordered each portcullis dropped and braced. The gates were the original iron weave from the prison days and did well enough keeping slaves and mages in, but the Knight-Captain had his doubts that they could hold up long against invading soldiers. Breaking _in_ to the Gallows had never been a large concern before and the ancient gates were as likely to break as the stone grooves that housed them. Cullen was not so foolish as to rest all his hopes on the integrity of Tevinter masonry and set archers on the wall as well as stationing the meager troops he was left with around the entry yard.

On the off chance that the Qunari found another way into the Gallows, Cullen had the mages gather in the dining hall and appointed several templars to guard them. Of those mages, a few trusted enchanters were selected to bolster the defenses in the entry yard and some others assigned to set up and work a small infirmary. Anita protested the appointment of Trevelyan to the healer group, as she'd barely been mentored, but the Knight-Captain appeared to be deaf to her concerns.

“I suppose you'll be useful enough with the smaller tasks,” Anita muttered as they arranged supplies on the formari shop tables. “Keep in mind that bones must be set before they are mended, or they'll heal wrong and need to be broken all over again. If you find an injury that is beyond you, do not let pride blind you – call for a more experienced hand.”

Ebrisa nodded emphatically. “I'll do my best to not be a hindrance to you all.”

A tense quiet settled over the entry yard, the silence broken occasionally by the louder sounds of battle across the water. The templars and experienced mages left behind felt little more than useless for being benched in the defense of the city, yearning to join their fellows against the heathen forces. Cullen was – of course – among them, but knew that orders were orders.

“Two vessels approaching!” An archer called down to the yard, stirring the troops to attention.”Doesn't look like ours!”

“Hold fire until you have visual confirmation,” Cullen shouted back before ensuring the stationed men were once again at the ready.

One of the ferries was almost docked by the time their horns and red paint could be seen beyond the shield wall they erected. “Qunari!” The man barely got off a shot before a spear soared through the air and hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him off the wall and down into the yard. He landed with a sickening thud, the cracking of his bones echoing across the stonework and erasing any hope that he yet lived.

Cullen ordered the remaining archers to fire at will as the invaders disembarked and made their way to the main portcullis. The Qunari held their shields overhead, providing cover while they climbed the steps until the archers no longer had a viable angle to attack. The gaps in the gate were too small to fire through on either side, so as the Qunari pressed against the metal with their shields, the templars thrust at any exposed limbs they could get their swords at. The damage was minor, but anything that could be done to hinder the invaders was appreciated.

“Withdraw!” Cullen called out, pulling his men back from the metal gate as it started to give way. “Lightning!” The mages let loose their electric magic, hitting the gate and electrocuting the enemy on the other side. Several of the Qunari dropped, but not enough to stop the breach of defenses. “Shields up!” Templars fell into position, left arms bracing the symbol of their order while their right held swords, maces, and axes at the ready. Mages dropped protective barriers over themselves and tightened their grips on their staffs, the added focus emboldening them.

The main portcullis came crashing down and spears launched instantly, but the defenders were prepared and only one templar was hit directly. For every templar dropped, a Qunari was felled or the forces pushed back to the stairs, but with the aide of magic on only one side the battle was slowly moving in favor of the defenders.

“Shouldn't we be helping?” Ebrisa looked anxiously around the corner of a pillar, chewing her lip as she watched another templar narrowly block a strike.

“The best way we can help is to reserve our mana for healing,” an older mage grumbled.

“Rowan is right, Trevelyan,” Anita spoke up from behind her pupil, trying to ease her away from the danger. “Which is more useful, landing an extra hit on the enemy or stopping a gushing chest wound?”

“But there are clearly injured men out there,” the blonde protested. “Can't we-”

“We wait for orders.” Rowan interrupted. “This may be your first battle, but I assure you the men and women out there are not as fragile as they appear. They are aware of each other and know when to call for us.”

As if on cue, the templars began passing back a few soldiers, guarding their retreat until they collapsed behind the line. Someone called out for the healers and Rowan dropped barriers over the injured before rushing out with three others to pull them to safety. The mages performed quick assessments to determine the severity of the injuries, relived to find no broken bones or ruptured organs. Anita settled between the men and called to the spirits of compassion, activating a healing aura and tending to the wounds in the most efficient way.

More soldiers followed suit as the fight wore on, being escorted to the formari shops and checked out. Those with uncomplicated injuries were taken to Anita's group while the more severe were dealt with individually. Ebrisa tried her best to be of use, acting as a runner between the experienced healers and bringing them whatever tonic or tool they called for, but most of the time she was left to stand awkwardly to the side.

A clanking noise echoed down the corridor, too clear to be from the battle around the bend, and managed to catch only Ebrisa's attention. It was difficult to be certain from that distance and through the two latticed gates, but she was almost positive Qunari were approaching from the other side of the docks. She twisted around to tell the others, but the true healers had their hands more than full and she feared what might happen to their patients if she broke their concentration. With a steadying breath, Ebrisa darted away from her fellows and over to the first gate of the intersection.

There _was_ a group of Qunari approaching, perhaps a bit smaller than the group currently fighting in the yard, and they were carrying some sort of jugs. Ebrisa had heard about the poisonous gas that drove a small district insane and couldn't fathom what such a weapon would do to the templars now. The Qunari would have to break through two gates to get in this way, but they would face little resistance once they did and could easily release the toxin from behind the Gallows' defenses. Ebrisa doubted she could hold them off by herself, but she could at least buy enough time for backup.

She was initially hesitant about attacking with the staff, but the Qunari were threatening her home and every soul that lived there and _the Maker understands necessity_. Ebrisa had the fire wall spell forming before the enemy even noticed her across the gap between the gates. She locked eyes with a Qunari as the first lick of flame appeared and watched him try and call out a warning to the others behind him in his harsh tongue. The barrier sprang to life just beyond the gate and the jugs that Ebrisa believed to contain poison vapor exploded with a force and noise she'd never experienced.

The blast knocked down the first gate and bent the other two in the intersection out of their grooves, as well as sending rubble and Ebrisa flying towards the small healing station. Rowan reacted first, casting a massive shield around the impromptu infirmary to protect them from debris and winced as a particularly large chunk of stone bounced off the shimmering surface.

Before the dust even began to clear, a Qunari managed to push past the collapsed ceiling of the stairwell and knock the second gate down with little effort. He strode up to the coughing Ebrisa laying amongst the rubble of the blast and lifted her with a single, massive hand around her neck.

“Your resistance makes no sense, bas-saarebas,” he began in a rumbling, deep voice. “Do you not follow rules? Put yourself below the betterment of the whole? Bound by the duty of your defiled nature? Are you not a _dangerous thing_?” The Qunari tightened his grip just a little, shifting his hold from firm to painful. “Your life would be no different under the Qun.”

Ebrisa struggled to focus past the ringing in her ears and pounding in her head to find the clarity to claw at the hand wrapped around her neck and process the warrior's words. No, the Maker gave His creations free will. They could choose to follow the Chantry's rules or defy them, choose to listen to guidance or go their own way. She kicked feebly at the Qunari, emboldened by her thoughts to squeak out a single response from her straining throat. “The Qun offers nothing but compliance and death.”

The warrior was none too pleased with her defiance, squeezing her neck as the remaining soldiers of his wave began to join him on the other side of the rubble. Ebrisa could hear shouts in both Common and Qunlat, but nothing was making sense anymore as her body grew heavy and her vision darkened.

 

Ebrisa sat up with a start, gasping in air and ash as she tried to focus. The ringing in her ears had lessened and from the sound of shouting and clanging metal, the battle was still going on. She looked around frantically for the Qunari, uncertain of how long she had been knocked out, and found only smoldering corpses. The scorched stone around her was still hot, meaning the magic that felled the invaders had barely lifted, and she twisted on the ground to thank the others who came to her aide.

Rowan still held his shielding in place, the mages and templars within it staring at Ebrisa with a wide range of expressions. She furrowed her brow in confusion, uncertain how any of them could have attacked through the barrier. Whatever had happened, no one seemed to want to address it, but it had managed to end the rest of the Qunari on that side.

“Knight-Captain wants to know what's going on over here,” a templar called out as he staggered over to the infirmary, gripping his bleeding side. He stilled and took in the scene of destruction and death. “Sweet Maker...”

Rowan dropped his barrier and cleared his throat, glancing quickly at Ebrisa before addressing the newcomer. “Reinforcements, it seems. They had some sort of explosive. Must have miscalculated its potency.”

The soldier nodded and rushed back to the fight momentarily to relay the information as the witnesses got back to their tasks of mending. Ebrisa hurried to rearrange the supplies that had been thrown back by the blast, focusing once again on being useful to her mentor and assisting in bringing the wounded to safety. Many of the templars fought through their injuries and past the obvious pain, retreating only when dragged from the front lines and ordered to do so.

Ebrisa nearly jumped when a cheer rang out from the yard, signaling the end of the battle and the victory over the Qunari. She let out a sigh of relief and took a moment to try and settle her racing heart, a task that proved far too difficult and she ultimately abandoned.

“Well done, everyone,” Cullen called out, his voice easily carrying across the open space. “Unfortunately, with our portcullises broken, we do not have the luxury or resting on our laurels. We need sentries posted and our defenses fortified. Once you've been cleared by the healers, report in for assignment.”

In this, Ebrisa was allowed to assist. They checked over each of the surviving fighters – templar and mage both – and divided them into groups by severity of injury. Thankfully, many could be treated with a potion or poultice and sent on their way. Those more involved were handled by the experienced healers and Ebrisa soon found herself reporting to Cullen herself to be put to use after Anita sent her off.

“Knight-Captain, the wounded are being tended to. Is there something else I can do to further assist?”

Cullen turned at her approach, obviously weary from the fighting, but trying to keep a composed appearance. His efforts were undermined by the deep gash above his brow narrowly missing bleeding into his left eye and the gushing wound on his upper right arm he was trying to stem with his other hand. Ebrisa gasped before he had a chance to say anything and the sudden intake had her coughing just as quickly. Cullen glanced around, uncertain what had caused her initial shock. “Trevelyan, are you alright?”

“Me?” She got her fit under control and stared at the man incredulously. “You're the one bleeding all over yourself.”

He all but snorted and averted his eyes from hers. “This is fine. There are far more pressing issues.”

“Knight-Captain, your arm... it looks bad.”

“A flesh wound, I assure you.”

Ebrisa was unconvinced and slipped her hand into his right one. “Squeeze my hand.”

“What?” Cullen didn't know if he was more taken aback by the boldness of her action or the sternness of her voice.

“Squeeze my hand,” she repeated, more firmly than the first time. Cullen complied as best he could, all but confirming the mage's suspicions. “A flesh wound wouldn't weaken your grip or cause your arm to tremble.”

“It can wait,” he shot back, painfully pulling out of her grasp and trying to get back to supervising. “Keran, run to the armory and fetch more arrows!”

“And how are you supposed to fight if more Qunari come and you can't even hold a sword?” Ebrisa pressed, following the Fereldan as he moved to the main gate to inspect the integrity of the stone framing.

“There are others that need tending to. Take care of them first.” He once again tried to brush her off, glancing to an interior portcullis and wondering how long it would take to switch it to the main entrance.

“We _have_ been,” Ebrisa huffed, growing just as irritated as he was. Her pulse was pounding in her head and her breath was becoming short and choppy, an uncharacteristic anger building in her. “Maker's Breath, Cullen, will you just let me care for you already?!”

He turned to her sharply, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He tried to say something, but his thoughts had completely blanked of everything but her words.

Her expression softened back to concern, but her breath still came in pants. “You deserve to be cared for just as much as anyone else.” She placed her hand over his arm and in the back of his mind Cullen had enough sense to realize Ebrisa was referring to mending his injuries and numbly nodded his consent. “Thank you,” she sighed, as though he was doing her a great service by allowing himself to be healed.

Cullen moved his left hand out of the way as Ebrisa gathered healing energies in her palms and began the spell. He tried to not stare as she worked, forcing his gaze away each time he caught himself doing so, but inevitably returned to the action. The light from the spell made her eyes sparkle beneath her furrowed brow, almost glowing in the green light, but the feature that continued to draw his attention were her nearly pouting lips as she concentrated.

Ebrisa focused intently on mending the muscle, knowing Cullen would be too proud to not engage the enemy if another wave hit, and needed to be in peak condition. His wound was – of course – more severe than he let on. He had taken a spear to the arm, the metal head slicing through muscle and painfully snapping off just after piercing the flesh on the other side. Cullen had enough adrenaline in his system to rip the offending object free and take down its wielder, but he had been considerably slowed after the hit. Ebrisa hoped he wouldn't always be such an unwilling patient.

Almost too soon, she stopped and moved away from his arm. Cullen sucked in a breath as she stepped closer, nearly missing the glow of her hand as she raised it to his forehead to deal with the gash. It was much harder for him to resist staring this time as he had to keep his head still for her to heal it. He could feel her ragged breath on his neck and wondered just how much energy she had used on his behalf. Cullen looked down at her, intending to tell Ebrisa she could stop treating his superficial head wound when his eyes once again fell on her mouth. Without the spell bathing her in a green glow, Cullen was able to make out the blue discoloration of her parted lips.

Without thinking, he took hold of her face and stepped back to get a better look, breaking Ebrisa's spell and drawing her attention. He felt her erratic pulse under his fingertips, deepening his concern. “What's wrong with you?”

She looked up at him with confusion and a little bit of hurt, but began coughing before she could address either. Ebrisa barely managed to cover her mouth, pulling free from the templar as the fit continued. She was expelling more air than she was taking in and before long she was gasping for any bit of breath she could get. When the coughing finally passed, there was a thick wetness on her lips and Ebrisa scrambled to wipe it away with the back of her hand. She thought the substance flem and was embarrassed that after the battle the Gallows had just seen, she would succumb to a cold.

“Apologies, Knight-Captain,” Ebrisa mumbled before releasing a single cough. “I'll go see if Enchanter Anita needs help.”

“Oh, you're seeing the healers alright.” Cullen took a firm hold of her upper arm, almost dragging the mage across the yard.

“If I overstepped, I-”

“Look at your hand,” he cut in, his voice holding the same sternness she had used against him earlier. Ebrisa awkwardly did as instructed, managing to get a glimpse of the red smear on her skin. “Your pulse is strange, you can't take deep breaths, and you're coughing blood. You need to be looked at before air eludes you all together.”

“Knight-Captain,” Ebrisa panted.

“ _You deserve to be cared for just as much as anyone else_ ,” Cullen recited back to her, erasing the rest of her protest before she had a chance to voice it. “If it's true for me, it's true for you, too.”

Rowan was more than a little startled when the knight-captain all but shoved Ebrisa at him and ordered she be looked at before returning to the yard. The enchanter glanced over to the templars nursing healing potions sitting nearby for some sort of clarity. Rowan, being an older mage that rarely left the Gallows any more, had little interaction with Cullen and hadn't the foggiest idea if his behavior was normal. Most of the group shrugged, but two of the younger templars snickered to each other while an older knight stared after his superior, a hard grimace of disapproval etched in every corner of his features.

Clearing his throat, Rowan directed his attention back to the mage before him and immediately noted everything that caused Cullen to rush her over. “Trevelyan, wasn't it? Sit very still while I inspect you.”

Ebrisa hummed in understanding, doing her best to follow instructions as the man examined her. She thought that perhaps she had breathed in too much dust and ash from the explosion and after expelling the offending substance she would be fine, but the sighing and tongue clicking behind her told Ebrisa it wasn't so simple.

“How close were you to that explosion?” Rowan mumbled. “I'll tell you, too close. I've seen similar injuries from maul strikes – you've had the air knocked out of you so forcefully you can't get enough back in. A few ribs are cracked from the debris and one of your lungs has suffered swelling. There is some fluid build up...” He eased her to her back, frowning uneasily. “I need you to hold your nose while I force in air. It will be uncomfortable, but its necessary.”

The woman looked over to the bleeding soldiers, feeling more than a little guilty for postponing their obvious injuries just because she was having trouble catching her breath. Rowan seemed to notice her hesitation and sighed, forcing her hand into position. “The longer you delay, the longer they wait,” he chided. “Just because we can't see your injury doesn't mean its less devastating.”

Ebrisa held back a sigh and did as instructed, closing her eyes as Rowan cast a wind spell and placed a hand over her mouth, forcing a portion of the swirling air into her. It was painful, as he had warned, and after a few seconds Rowan withdrew his hand to let her exhale. He repeated the process several times, each breath hurting just a little less, until the proper color returned to the woman's skin. Rowan was able to mend the bone and ease the swelling a little with the aide of a spirit, but he warned that she was not fully recovered.

“Don't overexert yourself, and if you feel short of breath or lightheaded, come back immediately.” The enchanter helped Ebrisa back to her feet, uneasy frown still in place. “I'll check on you again in a few days. With luck, you should be perfectly fine. That is, of course, assuming you stay away from explosions for at least a little while.”

She nodded, blushing in embarrassment as she walked away. Thinking back on it, she had brought the injury on herself with her impulsive actions and possibly caused more damage to the Gallows than the Qunari would have. Although, by igniting the explosives before they were properly placed, Ebrisa had taken a good number of the enemy out by surprise. The ensuing confusion of the blast, coupled with the uncredited inferno magic, had taken out the reinforcements completely. What did it matter that Ebrisa couldn't take deep breaths for a little while if her actions aided in defending her home?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found it hard to believe that the Qunari would leave the Gallows alone. That, coupled with the fact that you don't run into Cullen at all during the Act 2 climax, lead me to this. I hate writing fight scenes and went through several versions of this before finally settling on something partway decent.


	19. Misunderstanding

By the time Elthina returned to Kirkwall, all signs of the Qunari attack were gone. The streets were cleared, the compound at the docks emptied, and every spec of blood was washed from the Keep. Hawke had been proclaimed the first ever Champion of Kirkwall and the appointment, while a great boost to city moral, did little to fill the political void left by the viscount's death. With Dumar dead and his only heir laid to rest weeks before, there was no clear succession of power. Few of the magistrates and other nobles had any desire to take up the position, fearing doing so would put a target on their own backs since the past several viscounts met with very public and unpleasant ends.

The Grand Cleric, Meredith, Aveline, and Seneschal Bran worked together to keep Kirkwall going, each taking up a few extra responsibilities until proper arrangements could be made. Meredith proved especially adept at governing city affairs from her years of experience running the Gallows, but was sure to leave the financial aspects to a proper bookkeeper. Even in the Circle, Meredith was not suited for managing coin and left that task to the first enchanter, as tradition dictated.

The Gallows itself was repaired in record time, the knight-commander taking the opportunity to update the fortifications to the standards of the _current_ age. She commended Cullen for his efforts in her absence and began delegating more tasks to him as her focus shifted to include the city's care. Meredith was still very hands-on with many aspects of the Circle, but to some it seemed as though she was grooming her knight-captain for command and perhaps preparing to step into the role of viscount full-time.

 

Anita had been weary of Ebrisa for several weeks following the Qunari attack, but eventually fell back into her usual mentoring standards and mannerisms. The blonde was progressing well, having gained a confidence boost from merely being selected to assist during the battle, and was soon able to activate and hold a healing aura effortlessly. Anita was initially cautious of throwing too much at the blonde too quickly, but her pupil picked up the new spells and techniques with an enthusiastic flourish.

Having used hardly any of her magic to heal until the very end of the battle left Ebrisa determined to not be so useless when next she was called upon and spent a great deal of time studying every aspect of healing she could. Healing magic was, of course, a wonderful gift to have, but mana only lasted so long and Ebrisa didn't want it to be a crutch or her only means to help. Senior Enchanter Bernice and Solivitus were able to spare some time after the new year began to show her more herbalism techniques in exchange for the mage's assistance with grunt work in producing salves and tonics for the formari shops. Many thought it strange that a harrowed mage would subject herself to tasks usually given to Tranquil, but Ebrisa was glad for the experience.

As fulfilling as crafting potions was, the mage found the practice of creating recipes equally – if not more – interesting and found herself reading personal journals of long gone researchers, studying their trial and error and following their thought process. The problem with journals was that the library organized them by author and not subject, so finding a specific topic by an unknown name meant opening each cover and skimming the contents for a page or two.

 

Carver had thought – hoped, really – that after showing such fighting prowess at the knight-commander's side, he would be assigned more patrols and less sentry duties. No such luck, it seemed, and Solivitus saw the young templar as little more that an errand boy. Carver greatly resented being sent to fetch a trailing helper, especially since Solivitus had so many already working on his damn potions, but experience told him that arguing would do no good against the formari merchant. At least he knew where to look.

Sure enough, Carver found Ebrisa in the library with her nose in a book. The scene was made only a little strange as the mage was reading while balanced on a stool precariously stacked upon a chair. “You know, there _are_ ladders,” Carver called out as he headed down the row.

Ebrisa squeaked, turning to the voice in surprise and nudging the stool just enough to scoot a leg off the chair beneath it and send the entire structure toppling down, reader included. Carver swore under his breath and rushed to catch the mage, misjudging the momentum of the fall and hitting the ground barely a second after only kind of securing Ebrisa. The noise of the crashing furniture and armor easily cut through the quiet library, ignored by the Tranquil working there and drawing the only other templar in the space away from Teryn and leaving the records he was going over behind to investigate.

“Ow...” Ebrisa whispered against Carver's armor. The knight had failed to catch her in any helpful way and succeeded only in softening her landing with platemail instead of stone.

The man grunted an agreement of discomfort, having knocked the back of his head pretty good against the floor. “Next time, Trevelyan, use a bleeding ladder.” He blindly pushed her back with one hand, forcing Ebrisa to sit up.

“Right...” The mage's reply was muffled by the hand she'd slipped over her face to cover her injured nose. She had managed to smack it squarely on Carver's chest plate and half expected to have dented the armor with her face.

The unmistakeable clanking steps of a templar approached and the two people on the floor looked up just as Cullen rounded the row. He froze at the scene, taking in each piece and giving some far more importance than others. Carver lay flat on his back with Ebrisa almost straddling him. Her face was red and partially obscured by a hand, tears forming in the corner of her eyes as she blinked at Cullen. He blinked back at her, focusing his attention on Carver's hand pressing against the mage's chest. Cullen shook his head, breaking from his stunned silence and quickly moved to the pair.

He slipped an arm around Ebrisa's waist and all but yanked her from the floor without breaking stride, depositing her in one of the _not_ upturned chairs before pointing a finger in her face. “ _Stay_.” Cullen turned around and addressed the templar barely sitting up with an equally angry digit. “ _Follow_.”

Carver scrambled to his feet and did as instructed, walking behind his superior until they had reached an unoccupied store room. The men were only a year or two apart in age, which made the vast difference in authority hard for Carver to swallow at times. True, the Knight-Captain had been training with the templars since a young age, but Carver's own adolescence was equally filled with swordplay – albeit not for the same intended purpose. Still, despite all the hardships the knight had seen growing up with an apostate twin and everything that changed with the Blight, he could not deny that Cullen had suffered far worse.

Rumors floated around the Gallows about what had truly happened in Fereldan's Circle when it fell, but Carver was perhaps one of the few that actually knew. After the mess with Tarohne, Cullen had confided in Hawke's group about being trapped and tortured by demons as Kinloch Hold was overrun with abominations. He didn't go into details, but Carver could see the haunted look in his eyes as he spoke and knew that whatever the man had suffered, it had aged him. Carver still wasn't sure why the knight-captain had told any of it to them and knew better than to ever bring it up again to ask.

“What, exactly, do you think you were doing?” Cullen snapped.

Carver shot to attention, going rigid from the sheer ferocity in the other man's voice. “Knight-Captain? I- I wasn't-”

“Wasn't thinking?” Cullen cut in, folding his arms to keep them to himself. “That much is obvious.”

“I was just trying to help,” Carver defended. “Trevelyan fell. She... kind of does that a lot.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and shrug, locked in place by the angry glare of his captain.

“And do you usually take advantage of those you _help_?”

“Whoa, what? I didn't-”

“Mages are our charges, Ser Carver,” Cullen nearly shouted, struggling to keep his voice from leaving the small room. “They rely on us to keep them safe from demons and temptations, which can not be done if we fall prey to temptation ourselves.”

“Knight-Captain, I don't-”

“Don't lie to me, templar.” The officer lowered his voice, but not its ire. “I _saw_ your hand on her breast.”

He _thought_ it seemed a little too soft to be a shoulder. “Flames,” Carver grumbled. “Not again.”

“ _Again_?!”

Carver realized too late he had spoken out loud and rushed to fix his mistake. “It was an accident – both times were! Like I said, she falls a lot!” Next time Trevelyan tripped, he was just going to let her hit the ground if this was the thanks he got.

“You must restrain yourself,” Cullen berated as though he didn't believe the other man's explanation. “Your duty to the Order and the Chantry comes first and if you can not put an end to these inappropriate actions and desires, perhaps you should recuse yourself from being in this sort of situation at all by resigning.”

“No, ser,” Carver quickly rejected. “Its nothing like that. It won't happen again, I swear.”

“See that it doesn't.” Cullen leaned in just a little, an almost dangerous look in his eyes. “You can not fraternize, you can not be friendly _,_ you can not _touch_ her – especially so intimately!”

The knight nodded, needing to clear his throat to find his voice. “Yes, Knight-Captain, but don't you mean _them_?”

“Them?” Cullen backed off slightly, confusion slipping into his voice.

“As in _mages_?” Carver looked the other man over more closely, searching for some hint of understanding.

The officer straightened and tried to regain an authoritative posture. “Exactly so. Mages.” He motioned to the exit with his head. “You may return to your duties, and I don't want to have this conversation again.”

Carver nodded and excused himself, leaving the door open behind him as he left. Once the echoing of the knight's steps had died off, Cullen let out a deep sigh and ran a hand through his curly hair. In addition to the anger that filled him at seeing Carver clumsily grope the mage, Cullen was nearly overwhelmed with another feeling at the sight of Ebrisa straddling the templar. He was jealous, and the fact that she was fully clothed and Carver fully armored did nothing to stop the bitter taste.

In the back of his mind, he could clearly see what had occurred and that it was all truly just an accident. If it had happened with anyone else, Cullen was certain he would have handled himself calmly – maybe even laugh at it – but his emotions had blinded him because it _wasn't_ a random mage. Cullen was also keenly aware that every angry word he flung at Carver was actually meant for himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Cullen trudged through the rest of the day with more glowering than usual and did his best to not snap at the men. It was a welcomed relief when night fell and his duties were winding down, because he knew he could just fall onto his bed and stop his brain from thinking for a few precious hours. Dreams were rarely comforting for him, but anything seemed preferable to the questioning and berating thoughts that had been hissing in the back of his mind since before lunch.

He had almost made it to the templar barracks when Teryn called out to him in the not-quite shout the Tranquil were so adept at. Seeing the older man forced Cullen to remember the task that had brought him to the library that morning and the fact that he completely abandoned it. “Apologies, Teryn. Might we continue going over last quarter's records in the morning?”

The Tranquil nodded. “That would be best, as the library should have been closed by now.”

Cullen frowned at that. It was unusual for the routine to be delayed. “And why hasn't it been locked up for the night?”

“A mage remains inside and would not leave. I thought you could persuade the reader into doing so.”

Enchanters often lost track of time while researching, but rarely ignored the polite, yet insistent prompting of the Tranquil to vacate the room. Letting out an annoyed sigh, Cullen held out his hand. “I will deal with it and lock up for you.” Teryn placed the key ring in the templar's grasp and nodded once again, exiting without exchanging further words.

Curfew was coming down soon, meaning that the mage was really pushing their luck with avoiding punishment and trying Cullen's patience with their foolishness. No theory was so vitally important as to incur Meredith's wrath. There were no windows in the library, leaving it far darker than the corridor and much of the Gallows. It was dimly lit with only a few candles still burning near the door and a single unextinguished oil lamp flickering down one of the rows, announcing the mage's location. Cullen made no attempt to quiet his steps – if anything, he tried to make more noise – so that the reader knew he was coming. Few had qualms about waving off a Tranquil, but a templar officer was another matter all together and he was curious if the mage would even try.

He followed the light, navigating the tables and straightened chairs along the way without issue and for the second time that day, Cullen turned into the row and stilled at the sight awaiting him.

“Knight-Captain,” Ebrisa sighed in relief. “I hate to admit it, but I was beginning to think I'd be here all night.”

Cullen opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and squinted at the woman as he tried to process her presence. “What are you doing in here so late?”

She tilted her head, just as confused by him as he was by her. “You told me to stay...”

He _did_ said that, didn't he. In the late morning, Cullen had plopped Ebrisa down in that exact chair before dragging Carver out for a good scolding and promptly forgot all about it. There was a pile of books neatly stacked on the floor beside the mage and a very clear indication of her reach on the lower shelves next to her. It was utterly ridiculous that she had been there all day, simply because he said so.

A snort broke the silence and Cullen quickly pressed his lips into a tight line to prevent further noises. Ebrisa's eyebrows shot up as she watched him struggle, the look of surprise on her face being the nudge that pushed him over the edge.

“Maker's Breath, I just needed to speak with Ser Carver alone. I didn't mean you should sit there _forever_ ,” Cullen managed to get out semi-coherently through his laughter. He covered his mouth and faced away in a vain attempt to hide his mirth.

“Don't,” Ebrisa mumbled, seemingly embarrassed by her protest.

“I do apologize for finding humor at your expense, but you have made it so terribly easy.” His words were much more understandable this time, as the initial bark of laughter died down to more manageable chuckling.

“No,” the mage mumbled again, a little more sure of herself. “I meant _don't turn away_.”

The remark had Cullen glancing over his shoulder as best as his armor allowed.

“I... I like watching you laugh.” Ebrisa fiddled with her fingers, suddenly finding her pinkies very interesting. “You look so relaxed and it... I can't really explain it.” She furrowed her brow, honestly thinking very hard for a good way to describe the feelings that came over her when she saw the templar like that. “It makes me giddy.” Ebrisa chanced a glance away from her hands and found Cullen facing her fully again. “Maybe it's contagious? I just know I don't see it often enough to be satisfied.”

Cullen had completely sobered up and was very glad for the darkness of the library, feeling he needed it to hide the flushing of his cheeks. “You actually see it more than anyone else,” he quietly admitted.

“Because you are an authority figure to the other templars?”

“I should be an authority figure to you as well,” Cullen retorted wryly, making the mage straighten instantly.

“I, of course, respect you a great deal, Knight-Captain.” Ebrisa cleared her throat and shifted her gaze to the side, as if checking with someone else if it was okay to proceed. “But... but you aren't _just_ the knight-captain. There's a person there, too.”

Cullen felt his throat tighten and wracked his brain for a response. The conversation was heading in a dangerous direction and he wondered if Ebrisa fully understood what she was saying or how much weight he should really be putting in her words. She herself admitted to not really knowing what she was feeling, so Cullen could very easily be reading too much into it, hoping for a meaning when there was none.

Deciding that the best course of action was to ignore the comment, Cullen waved the mage up with his hand. “Come on, I need to lock up and curfew has surely hit by now.”

Ebrisa nodded, rising from the hard chair for the first time all day and grimacing in mild discomfort. She stretched her arms over her head, arching her spine as she pulled back and made quiet noises with the effort. Her hand brushed against her loose braid as she shifted angles, dragging hair from the plait until there was an audible pop of joints and she relaxed with a sigh. “Maker's Mercy, but I needed that.”

A strangled hum was the only reply Cullen could manage, forcefully averting his eyes to prevent further staring as the mage gathered up the impressive stack of books onto the chair. Ebrisa frowned a bit as she studied the pile, realizing that her extended time in the library had increased her selection to an unmanageable size. “Shoot,” she muttered, rubbing at her forehead. Logic told her that she should put some back, but experience said she would have trouble finding the same tomes again. “Maybe I can...” The mage slid the stack to the edge of the chair and scooped her hands underneath the bottom-most cover, slowly standing and leaning back to let the books and journals rest against her torso. It seemed to be holding up fairly well, although a might heavy and forcing her arms to their full length, and she nodded. “Yes.” The mage turned around and took a step towards the exit, wobbling just a little as she did so.

“No.”

She raised her eyes to question Cullen and almost dropped the stack. He stood by the oil lamp with his arms folded, shaking his head slowly at her obvious struggle. The small blaze beside him bathed his amused expression in warm light and detailing shadow, defining the higher curve on the right side of his mouth. Ebrisa's knees felt suddenly weak and her stomach fluttered as she memorized the sight. She didn't get to see him smile enough either.

Cullen cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, hinting to Ebrisa that she'd been staring. The faint tinting on her cheeks increased and the woman tried to hide her face in the dusty leather cover on the top of her collection. The knight-captain knew she thought he was handsome – having already told him so during a rather awkward conversation the year before – but that didn't make her awestruck gaze any less embarrassing for him. If anything, knowing made it all so much worse.

“We, um, we should go,” Ebrisa mumbled into the books, once again wobbling forward.

“Not like that,” Cullen sighed as he held up a hand to stop her. The man took the lion's share of the stack, halting the mage's protest before it started with a raised brow. “Unless, of course, you intend to trip all the way back to your quarters?”

Ebrisa knew he was right, finding his lack of confidence in her ability less a slight and more a testament to how well he knew her. The truth didn't deter her mild pout and she bore the expression stubbornly as she extinguished the lamp and candles. Now in the corridor, Cullen seemed to realize his own miscalculation and glanced at the mage almost sheepishly.

“I'm afraid you'll need to lock up. My hands are otherwise occupied...”

She almost giggled at his grumbling, but restrained herself and closed the double doors instead. “The keys?”

“In my sash,” Cullen said as he motioned to the right with his head. “You'll want the one with four circles inside a larger circle.”

Ebrisa hummed as she slipped out the keyring and flipped through the metal pieces. “There are so many... ” She found the key he described and secured the library with a clank of the tumblers.

“That's just the library set. The main door and a few for the restricted sections I can recognize, but most of those are for individual cases and cabinets.” He turned down the hall and waited for the mage to follow before continuing. “If you need to get into any of those, you'll have to ask Teryn.”

Most of the Gallows had settled in for sleep, leaving the fortress far too quiet. Every scrape of Ebrisa's slippers or clink of Cullen's armor echoed around them and neither felt confident enough in whispers to dare speaking for fear of the entire Circle hearing them. Cullen knew the patrol routes well enough to steer them through the corridors without running into any questioning templars, being fully aware of how the pair must look while also not knowing at all what they were.

It wasn't until they reached the enchanter wing with noise of snoring and voices drifting around that Ebrisa broke the silence between them. “I may have missed evening service and a couple of meals, but I'm glad I misunderstood you.”

Cullen turned his head to regard her curiously. “And why is that?”

“Well, basically I was determined to wait until you came back for me.” She hugged the few books he left her close to her chest. “It seems like we haven't had much opportunity to talk. You... it feels like you only acknowledge me when something terrible happens.”

The morning's accident came flooding back, distorted by the thoughts Cullen had been fighting all day until he imagined Carver and Ebrisa caught in varying states of undress with disheveled hair and flushed skin. Cullen shook the false scene from his head and focused on the scolding he gave the other man instead.

_You can not fraternize._

“I'm not saying I expect philosophical discussions or meaningful conversations, but you don't even say hello in passing.” Ebrisa ducked her head, mumbling the next part in an attempt to mask the pain in her voice. “That is, on the rare occurrence you don't run off at the sight of me.”

Subtlety was never a strong suit of his, so Cullen shouldn't have been nearly so surprised that Ebrisa had noticed his avoidance over the past several months. Noticed, and was hurt by it. He wasn't trying to hurt her...

_You can not be friendly._

“This is me,” Ebrisa sighed as she turned the knob and pushed into her room. The quarters were a bit smaller than her old one, but with the absence of a second bed she was provided with more room. She used the space to store the various gardening supplies as well as arrange a small table with pestles and bottles while flowers and other plants hung from the ceiling to dry. It made the room look less like a mage's quarters and more like a workshop that just happened to have a bed in it.

She walked over to her desk by the thin window and set down the books, Cullen quietly mimicking her actions. They stood in silence, both finding further words too difficult to form and neither daring to move. The templar tried to keep his eyes on the desk, but his gaze slowly followed the shaft of moonlight up to Ebrisa's face. Even with her profile obscured by twists of loose hair, Cullen could plainly make out the pain and the sadness in her features. Feelings he had caused.

His hand trembled just a little as he raised it, hesitating slightly before reaching out. He pushed the errant strands back gently, brushing his gloved fingertips across her skin as he did so.

_You can not touch her._

Cullen tucked her hair behind her ear before slowly lowering his hand, trailing the shell with his thumb.

_Especially so intimately._

With the now unobstructed view, he watched her lips quiver as shaky, quickened breaths passed over them. Carefully, as though she feared he would disappear at any moment, Ebrisa turned to face him with wide eyes. Even in the pale light of the moon, her eyes shone bright green and she looked at him with so many emotions and questions that he couldn't identify a single one. It was likely she couldn't either.

Cullen had so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to explain, so much to make her understand. In the end, he settled for the only thing he felt was safe. “I'm sorry.”

“Hold, this one is open,” a voice sounded from the corridor, followed by armored steps. An older templar stepped into the room, stopping suddenly when he saw the two standing at the desk. He narrowed his eyes slightly and struggled to keep the rest of his face neutral. “Knight-Captain.”

“Ser Leon,” Cullen responded, moving away from the desk and towards the door. “Trevelyan took on a bit too much research and required assistance from the library. How has patrol been thus far?” The officer ushered the other templar back into the corridor and closed the door behind them. Cullen remained formal and calm during the exchange, giving no indication that he had been up to anything. After a remark or two from the other members of the patrol, Cullen nodded and sent them on their way before heading off to his own quarters for some much, _much_ needed rest.

 


	20. Chateau Haine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Dragon Age 2's birthday! Congrats, fam!
> 
>  
> 
> There is so much good banter in the 'Mark of the Assassin' DLC that I used a lot of it. I did, of course, put a little spin on some aspects, but expect to see a lot of familiar lines in this section.

As the year wore on and winter faded to late spring, Cullen made a conscious effort to acknowledge Ebrisa when they crossed paths – neither seeking her out nor dodging her – and letting the brief interactions come naturally. It started with a simple meeting of the eyes and a nod, then actually addressing her and sometimes returning the woman's quiet greeting. It was no more than he afforded other mages and not at all strange to the casual observer, but to those few already suspicious of the pair it was hard to miss the way Ebrisa brightened at a simple _good morning, Trevelyan_ or how Cullen struggled to keep his own smile at bay.

That was really all they did. No long conversations or secluded meetings, just quick exchanges in busy corridors. Cullen hoped that the shift would allow him to get his mind back in order and satisfy the ill-advised urge to be near the woman, instead of trying to deny it all together, as that only seemed to make the urge stronger. He felt like his old self again, though perhaps a little less broody, and was glad to see Ebrisa begin to allow Edan and Vemara back in. The elven girl had been right, of course – Ebrisa needed friends.

 

Meredith, despite her best efforts and those of the guard-captain and seneschal, was under scrutiny from forces both foreign and domestic. She was not so foolish as to think Kirkwall could survive on its own and knew better than to isolate any potential allies while the city-state was still so vulnerable. It was this that drove her to begrudgingly take Seneschal Bran's advice and accept Duke Prosper's invitation.

“A wyvern hunt, Cullen. Of all the ridiculous things for nobles to make a party out of,” Meredith grumbled as she leaned on her desk. “But I am assured complying with this Orlesian's request will ease the concerns of our own nobles and others throughout the Free Marches.”

“He's ordering a mage like he would a jester, no doubt for much the same purpose.” Cullen didn't bother to hide his disdain at the notion. “Isn't the Cumberland Circle closer to Chateau Haine? Why not subject one of _their_ mages to such belittlement?”

“Nevarran magic makes many... uncomfortable.” Meredith shook her head, but was unable to fault Cullen's obvious objection. “Regardless, it was asked of _us_. Seneschal Bran suspects the Duke de Montfort has done so to test our strength and confidence as a whole and insists the event is perfectly tame. He will be attending himself, and promises to steer the nobles from requesting parlor tricks.” She flipped through the files on her desk until she found what she needed and began to gloss over the sheets.

Though he hated to admit it, Cullen knew many of their charges would find the opportunity for freedom too tantalizing and attempt to run once they were past the city limits. “Have you determined who you will send? Enchanter Dalton, perhaps?”

Meredith let out a single, booming laugh. “Dalton would barely be able to stand the journey out of Kirkwall, never mind the trek across the Vimmarks. Trevelyan will go.”

A brief rush of panic washed over Cullen and he sucked in a tight breath. While most of the Gallows' obedient mages were too old or too weak for the task, he was initially struck with the urge to argue against Ebrisa's assignment. In truth, Cullen knew the mage was likely the best suited as she was not only fiercely loyal, but hailed from a noble family herself and could navigate the Orlesian gathering easily. It wasn't the party that concerned him, however, but the precursory hunt for the poisonous cousin of the dragon.

“Not by herself, I hope.”

The knight-commander scoffed at the notion and passed the file to Cullen. “Indeed not. I intend for Trevelyan to return to us in one piece.” Whether the _us_ was meant as a general term or included just the two people in the room, Cullen couldn't tell. “I will be sending a templar with her.”

He looked at the thin service record in his hands and felt his blood heat. “Ser Carver Hawke,” Cullen nearly hissed.

Meredith raised a brow at the reaction, surprised by the uncharacteristic contempt her officer was so blatantly displaying. “You disapprove?”

Cullen started, forgetting himself for a moment, and glanced up quickly to gauge how much the woman might have gleaned from his unguarded features. “He... he's still very new. Shouldn't this task fall to an officer? Someone with more experience?”

Shouldn't it fall to him?

“I need all my officers here, Cullen, and the boy is capable with that sword of his.” Meredith took back the file and flipped it closed. “I have also heard that his sister, the Champion, has been invited as well. Her presence will likely afford our visiting mage some added protection.”

It made sense, and of course it did. Meredith may have become more reclusive and stressed due in no small part to her efforts managing the city, but she always took as many precautions as possible when it came to mages. Cullen, on the other hand, was having trouble swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth and seeing past the fact that Carver and Ebrisa would be spending a great deal of time together away from other templar eyes.

All of the progress he thought he'd made crumbled away with the slightest nudge of jealousy.

The task should have fallen to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ebrisa was giddy with anticipation the entire journey to Chateau Haine. She had not been to a real social event since she was young, going to few parties since her magic presented itself, but it was her magic that had now granted her this invitation. She passed the time by going over etiquette and trying to recall as much Orlesian as possible. While Orlais saw the segmented Free Marches as little more than backwater mini-nations bereft of any _true_ leadership, many of the larger city-states looked up to the empire's culture. As such, Lady Trevelyan insisted her daughters be tutored in the flowing language in the event they encountered any Orlesian nobility or trade partners.

When they arrived, Carver approached the duke as though he was reporting in and the Orlesian's annoyance did not escape either of the Gallows occupants. Before the templar had a chance to sneer back, Ebrisa stepped forward and dipped into a curtsey. “Duke Prosper, Your Grace, it is truly an honor.”

Prosper eyed her curiously, studying the angle of her movements. “I was unaware Kirkwall instructed their mages in proper manners.”

She brought a hand to her mouth and laughed politely. “Alas, Your Grace, I must refute that notion. My mother is due all the credit.”

Carver was unable to keep the confusion from his face as he watched the once timid mage converse so naturally with the haughty noble who had all but snubbed them a moment ago. He couldn't figure out where this confident woman had come from and quietly snatched up bits of information as she spoke until the duke seemed satisfied by Meredith's selection and waved the pair further in to mingle with the other guests.

It was quickly made apparent that Ebrisa was the only mage there and Carver the only non-noble guest, making both of them a little uncomfortable. Ebrisa was able to handle the small talk, steering it politely back to the other person when their questions made her uneasy and Carver's mere presence kept the conversations from getting too outlandish. A tall man in templar armor with a giant sword will do that.

They found their way to Gabriel, the Huntsmaster, and Carver was finally able to converse about things he understood. While the two men went back and forth, the hunt was officially opened. Ebrisa had no real interest in stalking a giant lizard through the woods, but the western slopes of the Vimmarks had some herbs she couldn't get her hands on otherwise and she hoped Carver wouldn't be too opposed to gathering some up with her.

“I already have an Amell, you see. Or Hawke, I suppose it is.” Prosper's voice carried easily over the mostly empty yard. “One of the Templar Order, as well. Although I'm not terrible impressed.”

Carver held back a groan at both the Orlesian's insult and the fact that there was only one person he could possibly be talking to. Excusing himself from the Huntsmaster, he turned around and found Hawke smirking at him almost sympathetically and begrudgingly made his way across the grass to her party. “Sister.”

“Perhaps you should join forces, to avoid any appearance of collusion between parties,” Prosper suggested with a small flick of his wrist. “At any rate, I won't keep you from the hunt! Wouldn't want you to fall behind the others, yes?”

“Maybe the wyvern will get all full from eating them and I can just saunter up after,” Hawke said with a shrug, the curl of her lip being the only thing to hint she wasn't entirely serious. Maybe.

The duke laughed heartily. “Good luck to you, my lady! Remember: fortune favors the bold.”

Once the Orlesian walked away with his Chasind bodyguard, Carver glanced at his sister once again. “Funny how we ran into each other here. You turn up in the oddest places.”

“I can't help it if I get invited to odd places, Carver.” Hawke folded her arms and nodded her head to a red-haired elf beside her. “This is Tallis. She asked for some help with... things.”

“ _Things_ , is it?” The templar frowned and looked the group over. Isabela. Sebastian. New elf. All rogues. “You're stealing something.”

“He's a little sharp,” Tallis hummed, as though Carver wasn't actually standing right in front of her.

“About as much as a pin _prick,”_ Isabela snickered, earning a halfhearted glare from the templar. “Wouldn't hurt to explain though.”

Tallis filled Carver in with all the details she felt comfortable with, letting him know what was going on but not too many specifics in case he decided to turn on them. To her surprise, the templar agreed to help with at least the hunt, which was fine. His plate armor wasn't exactly made for stealth.

“So that's why _we're_ here,” Hawke added once they were all on the same page, “but what is a single Kirkwall templar doing all the way out here?”

“A gesture of strength and good will, apparently,” Carver grumbled. “ _Baron Paucity de Rochfort_ requested the presence of a mage and I'm her escort.”

“Is this mage invisible?” Tallis craned her neck to look behind the man. “If so, we could use that later.”

He turned around and swore under his breath, searching the area until he spotted his charge kneeling at the edge of the clearing. “Trevelyan!”

Ebrisa shot up to her feet and fumbled with her journal, slipping the wrapped charcoal stick into the binding. She lifted the front of her robes a little as she jogged over to ensure she didn't trip and ruin whatever image she may have created with the nobility. Once she was close enough, the mage was quick to explain herself. “I do apologize, Ser Carver, but there was a variety of elfroot I hadn't seen before hiding amongst the ferns. I'm nearly positive it's Andraste's Mantle and had to double check. Master Gabriel did say it grows in the area, after all.”

“Are you saying you brought homework to a party?” Isabela sighed dramatically and rested a hand on her hip. “And here I was hoping this get-together wouldn't be boring.”

“You never attended hunting parties before, little Lady Ebrisa,” Sebastian mused. “I didn't think this was your sort of thing.”

“Oh, its not, my Lord Sebastian,” she quickly replied. “Knight-Commander Meredith asked me to go, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be any help in actually taking down a wyvern. I intended to use the time before the festivities studying the local flora.” Ebrisa sheepishly tucked the journal into her small pack, releasing quiet clinking noises of other, hidden supplies.

“Are you serious?” Hawke spat, drawing the mage's attention.

“Hawke,” Sebastian warned, recognizing the tone and trying to stop the woman before she went too far.

Hawke snorted. “Still useless and self-serving, I see.”

Ebrisa's mouth dropped a little as the embarrassed flush of her cheeks faded and an almost forgotten weight pulled her heart to her knees. Maker, how could she forget about Leandra?

“Dee, come on,” Carver hissed quietly, tugging his sister's arm to turn her away from the group. “You know she wasn't in control. She didn't do anything to Mother.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hawke pulled her arm free, but stayed in place. “ _She didn't do anything_.” After several agonizing minuets of silent sibling arguing, the Champion let out a frustrated huff and walked past the group. “Just don't get in the way. Let's go hunt a lizard.”

Tallis looked between the angry warrior and the saddened mage, feeling like the only one not privy to what was apparently a very tense history. “Awkward...” she mumbled as she fell in line behind Hawke, the others following a little ways back.

“Sorry about Dee, she just... it's her first time seeing you since...” Carver ruffled his hair and sighed. “I'm not sure if she doesn't fully understand or just wants someone to keep blaming. I mean, with all the maleficarum running around Kirkwall, you'd think my sister would cut you a little slack.”

Ebrisa tried to smile and wave the issue away. “Your mother was obviously a very kind woman and loved you both very much. If blaming me is the only way your sister can find peace, it's fine.” She shifted her gaze to Hawke's rigid back only a little ways ahead. “If I could have... I'm sorry I didn't...”

_Its_ _ not _ _fine, and you_ _ don't _ _have to apologize for it._

The mage stilled at the sound of Cullen's voice and looked around for its source before realizing it was in her head.

_We_ _ aren't _ _to blame._

Without even trying to, she'd pulled up the memory of him consoling her in the chapel. She could almost feel Cullen's hand on her back now, moving in circular patterns and instilling her with that safe, calm sensation she'd only ever known in his presence. Maybe it was because he had sisters that he knew how to be such an effective source of comfort. The smile on her face brightened at the memory and she was able to gather herself once again. Cullen wasn't even there, and he was still helping.

Seeing that his sister's outburst had stopped rattling the mage, Carver directed his attention to Sebastian. He barely knew the archer, as the man only joined Hawke's group the year before, and had a few nagging questions circling in his head.

“So, Sebastian,” Carver began, breaking the quiet just as they rejoined Tallis and Hawke, “I haven't seen you at the Gallows much. How do you know Trevelyan?”

Sebastian glanced at the mage for approval before he answered. “If there was a big social event in the Free Marches, you could bet the Vaels and the Trevelyans would be present. Lady Ebrisa's eldest brother was everything a noble child ought to be and my mother hoped some of that sense of duty would rub off on me and forced us to interact.”

“Federyc was often charged with watching us while Father and Mother attended to political matters,” Ebrisa added.

“Aye, and he played the nanny quite well, but I'm afraid that instead of him being a good influence on me, more often than not, I was a bad one on the younger brother. We'd sneak off while Federyc and Aurelia were distracted and get into mischief.” He paused and smirked at the mage. “But it was nearly impossible to go anywhere with Emery without the little Lady Ebrisa at his heels. Such a scunner, that one.”

“My Lord Sebastian...” Ebrisa mumbled, almost pouting like the child he was remembering.

“ _Ah_ , there's the wee nyaff now.”

Isabela grinned deviously at the exchange. “A shared past? Just how much of your life is parallel, or, should I say, horizontal?”

Sebastian quickly put a stop to the pirate's line of thinking before the mage could process what she meant. “Until recently, I hadn't seen Lady Ebrisa since she was six or so. After that, we took very different paths.”

 

The group moved through the forest, ignoring the other hunting parties and their odd tactics in favor of seeking out proper bait and actual wyvern signs. Tallis, for all her planning, was incredibly useless in the task and promptly nodded at each suggestion from someone else. While the others stopped to scoop up remains and blood, Ebrisa quietly gathered herbs. Ideally, she would have sketched out the full plant before harvesting, but she feared doing so would only delay the rest of the group.

After hearing _Good idea, do that_ one too many times from the elven thief, Hawke turned to the Starkhaven noble. “You've done this sort of thing before, right Seb? Got any tips that are, you know, actually helpful?”

“Doubtful,” Sebastian chuckled. “Last wyvern hunt I was on, my mother caught me sneaking off with the Kennelmaster's girl.” He shook his head at the memory and his younger self. “Took my bow away for a week.”

“Took your bow?” Ebrisa slipped her small blade back into her belt, drakevein caps still in her hand. “Your mother never resorted to such punishment when you snuck off with my brother.”

“Oh.” Sebastian turned sharply to the mage, having forgotten she was there. “Well, we were slipping away to do something far more... intimate.”

When the blonde continued to look at Sebastian curiously, Isabela began to smirk. “Oh, how precious. Has he shielded you from his less-than-pious years? Kept you in the dark about the things he did in it?” She slipped an arm around the mage's shoulder and leaned in close to her ear. “You see, your prince isn't the gleaming white soul he claims to be. In fact-”

“I must confess, I had several years of unsightly debauchery,” Sebastian sighed, cutting off the pirate and ruining her chance for fun. “I was a rake, for lack of better term.”

The completely scandalized look on the mage's face almost sent Isabela to the ground in laughter, but she managed to reduce it to only side-splitting. “Oh, you poor, sweet thing! I should have known something about you was too pure for this world when _Merrill_ called _you_ 'little child'. Sebastian is a handsome, full grown man, and, honestly, you should be more surprised to hear he _hadn't_ taken women to bed like a mug of warm milk. Even Kitten understands that.”

Hawke allowed herself a few good snickers at the blushing nobles – Sebastian out of embarrassment and Ebrisa's poor mind trying to come to grips with the shattered image of the prince. Hawke recalled her encounter with the mage in the Fade and how she blushed and fidgeted about the idea of being kissed by Feynriel. Anders had gone on several times about the kind of things bored mages got up to in Fereldan's Circle – kissing being the tamest by far – and thought for the first time that not all Circles were the same. Maybe if Starkhaven's hadn't burned to the ground, Ebrisa might have experienced something more substantial than a Fade kiss.

She may have only met the mage a handful of times, but in those encounters the blonde failed to display a single vein of corruption. Hawke had seen her worried, embarrassed, self-loathing, shamed, crying, humbled... The Fereldan refused to acknowledge it at the time, but even through her anger and despair, she could make out the pain hiding behind Ebrisa's remorse as Cullen lead the mage away from Quentin's lair. There were too many things going on to register, too many emotions to sift through with her mother laying dead in her arms, but in the back of her mind Hawke did notice the condition of the mage. Ebrisa looked completely drained, hair a mess and flecked with ash as she stumbled off in only a tattered shift. The pain of loss was too great to think of what the surviving victim endured... or that she _was_ a victim _._

The thought filled Hawke with a sudden, heavy shame. She had been trying to move past her mother's mutilation and death – something she had coped with through friends, alcohol, and friends with alcohol – she was able to take her time dealing with it, recover at her own pace. Ebrisa, however... how did she move on? Did Meredith even give her a chance to breath before making the mage file a report? Libations were certainly unavailable in the Gallows, but surely a sweet girl like Ebrisa had droves of friends to help.

And, Maker forgive her, Hawke did think Ebrisa was sweet. In her heart, she knew all her rage was misplaced and that the reported blood magic element had forced Ebrisa to become an unwilling thrall of the true monster. A monster who was dead – killed by the last of the Hawke line – and incapable of suffering further. Void take her, Hawke _knew_ she was being unfair to the mage, but she couldn't help it! She'd already yelled at Aveline for not catching the Kirkwall Killer sooner, berated Emeric's superiors for discouraging the templar's investigation, and gone back to the maleficar's lair with a very sturdy axe and torn the place apart. Someone had to pay for the giant hole left in her life, and Ebrisa was the only one she hadn't buried beneath wrath yet.

She was reduced to blaming a victim for being a victim.

Andraste's Ass...

 


	21. The Hunt

The hunting grounds seemed decidedly empty of their prey, likely driven away by the ruckus of the nobles who were there more for the festivities than an actual hunt. What could be found in abundance, however, were gangly little creatures Tallis identified as ghast. The moment they burst from their holes and out into the clearing, Carver leapt on the offensive and joined his sister in the thick of the fighting. Tallis and Isabela bobbed in and out, striking at weak points and dodging hits as Sebastian lent his missile support.

“You know, Carver,” Isabela sighed once the encounter was over. “You really suck at your job.”

The templar turned a challenging glare to the pirate, fully prepared to argue – and perhaps personally demonstrate – his proficiency with the greatsword, when he followed the jut of her thumb and caught sight of Ebrisa standing behind Sebastian. He was supposed to be protecting her while they were outside the Circle.

Flames...

“Sorry, instinct just took over and...” Carver put his sword away, the blade feeling heavier than it had a moment ago. “Trevelyan, are you hurt? I've never done an escort mission before.”

Ebrisa was quick to ease his concern. “Lord Sebastian ushered me behind them near instantly, so nothing even got close. What about you all?” She studied the blade users from across the clearing. “Are any of you injured? Knight-Commander Meredith did not grant me a focus, but did give sanction to use healing magic.”

The elf paused her attempt at self bandaging and looked up with the scrap of fabric still clenched in her teeth. “Oo ca oo aat?” She spat out the bandage and tried again. “You can do that?”

“Indeed, messere.” The mage made her way over to Tallis and, after a nod of permission, quickly healed the wound on her arm.

“So, I'm not really from around here,” Tallis began slowly as the mage was finishing up, “but what's with the _messere_?”

“It's a respectful title common in the Free Marches to be used for one's betters,” Ebrisa explained.

“Well, yeah, I knew _that_ ,” Tallis chuckled, wiping the blood from her healed arm. “What I meant is why use it on me? Didn't you say you were a noble? There's no way I outrank you on any sort of social ladder.”

“Of course you do.” Ebrisa smiled past her confusion, shaking her head just a little. “I'm a mage, Messere Tallis.” She spoke with such confidence, so certain of her comment, that the group could tell she held it to be a fact. In what little they knew of the woman, she had always shown such respect, such humility, and they thought little of it. It was a result of her noble upbringing or devote faith, nothing to be concerned with. Addressing strangers as _messere_ was often done to err on the side of caution, as to avoid insulting someone outranking you. Only the truly pompous threw around _serrah_ with the confidence the title would wind up being true.

Hawke could just imagine Anders railing against the notion his fellow mage clung to, fighting with Ebrisa that being a mage did not make her lesser than others by default. Somehow, Hawke knew that Anders would lose that battle.

“Sweet thing...” Isabela mumbled, the first of the group to say anything since the uneasy silence settled over them.

“Yes, Messere Isabela?”

The pirate visibly flinched. “Don't call me that, okay? No more _messere._ ”

“But-”

She held up a hand, stopping her protest. “No more _messere,_ not for me.”

“Not for any of us,” Hawke quietly added, earning a smirk from her Rivaini friend.

“Then how am I to address you?” Ebrisa looked around the group, clearly struggling with the request. “Wo-would... _Mistress Isabela_ be acceptable?”

The pirate hummed at the change. While it wasn't truly that different from the old title, it didn't imply superiority on either side, merely respect. “Only call me _mistress_ if you want me to be yours. Frankly, I'm a bit surprised by your forwardness.”

Ebrisa flushed and brought in her arms, cowering back slightly. “N-no! I-I didn't mean anything like _that_.”

“Oh, don't be so shy now.” Isabela strode past Sebastian and circled the reddening mage. “Let me get a good look at you and consider your offer.”

“I-I wasn't offering anything!” Ebrisa squeaked out, looking to the men for some sort of help. Unfortunately, both of the potential rescuers were far too familiar with Isabela's tactics and knew any sort of interference would only worsen the situation.

 

Hawke pressed them on, not wanting to give one of the prancing nobles boasting rights over the Champion of Kirkwall, and the group fell back into their easy chatter.

“You're Fereldan, right?” Tallis drawled at Hawke. “Did you know the Hero of Fereldan?”

Hawke sighed dramatically. “Alas, the Grey Warden you are talking about wasn't stationed anywhere near myself or Carver at Ostagar and – this may come as a bit of a shock – Fereldan is a big place and we don't, in fact, all know each other.” She twisted around just enough to raise a brow at the elf. “Isn't that like asking an Orlesian cheese maker if he knew the Hero of Orlais simply because they were from the same country?”

“I hate to point out the fault of your analogy,” Sebastian began, not sounding at all disappointed, “but the Hero of Orlais is actually from Nevarra.”

The grumpy glare she leveled at the archer sent Carver into a much needed fit of laughter.

A wyvern bounded over the hill up ahead, sending several of the other hunting parties into a panic with servants scattering in all directions. Hawke rolled her eyes at the would-be-hunters and broke out into a run towards the prey, not wanting to loose its trail. Despite their best efforts, they did just that at the edge of a small lake and stood around trying to pick it up again as Ebrisa gathered a few sprigs of winterberry.

The group found more wyvern signs and more ghast the further in they went, but less hunting parties. Hawke took it as a good sign, knowing the other _hunters_ were really that in name only. A familiar whine cut through the quiet forest and both Fereldan's tensed on instinct, rushing towards the sound without explanation to the others. They came across a pair of mabari, one of them laying limply on the ground and making the pitiful noise that brought the strangers.

“Wyvern poison,” Tallis sighed after a brief examination. “I'm almost certain of it. Poor thing.”

“This is exactly why I left Deshyr at home,” Hawke mumbled.

“You have a member of the Dwarven Assembly at home?” The elf eyed her curiously.

“What?” Hawke forced her attention back to Tallis. “No, that's my dog. We found him in a cave. Bethany named him.” She turned back to the mabari, seeing the sick animal and imagining her own hound laying in its place. “Isn't there anything we can do?”

“Oh,” Ebrisa gasped suddenly. “Oh, _oh_!” She fumbled with her pack and knelt before a relatively flat boulder, dumping the bag's contents on the ground. “The Master of the Hunt spoke of an antidote. Equal parts...” The mage set to work, grinding up the herbs she had quietly been gathering all day into a crude salve. She scraped up everything she could and hurried to the dog's side, the others moving out of her way. Ebrisa spoke quiet words to the mabari as she spread the mixture over the infected area, working it in with her fingers and a little bit of healing magic. Ideally, the herbs would have been distilled to remove impurities and increase potency, but she had neither the equipment nor the time to do so.

The mabari huffed, pulling himself to his feet and was instantly circled by the other hound. The dogs nipped at each other before pouncing on the mage and knocking her the rest of the way to the ground.

“Aww, the puppies like you,” Tallis cooed as the mabaris covered the blonde in appreciative licks and nuzzles before running off down the path, no doubt in search of their owner.

Ebrisa lay on the ground a moment longer, shifting between mortification and revulsion. She wiped at the slobber on her face, effectively smearing the lingering salve on her hands in its place and doing nothing to fix her appearance. Isabela and Hawke began laughing, causing the mage's reddened face to heat further. Carver and Tallis added in their chuckling as Ebrisa sat up and wiped at the slimy coatings with the sleeves of her robes, resigned to looking a mess for the rest of the hunt. Luckily, she had a change of clothing that she could put on before the party got underway.

Sebastian chided the others as he gathered the mage's belongings back into her pack, reminding them that there was still a very large, very angry lizard that needed their attention. Hawke begrudgingly agreed and took a firm hold of Ebrisa's arm, hauling the mage to her feet in one swift motion. She glanced at the blonde briefly as she released her, but said nothing and lead the way back down the path. Though he had kept himself from joining in the others mirth, Sebastian couldn't stop the amused smile from playing across his face as Ebrisa slipped her pack back on and tried to straighten her robes.

“I thought you grew up with animals,” Sebastian began, none too quietly as they brought up the rear. “Surely you're accustomed to their sudden bouts of affection.”

“My family raises horses,” she clarified. “Mounts are more likely to nibble your hair than lick you.”

“What, eat this?” The Starkhaven man flicked at one of the small braids that had fallen loose from Ebrisa's bun. “A richer color than the hay they'd normally snack upon, but I suppose it is rather tantalizing all the same.”

“I assure you, it is not nearly as nutrient rich. The steeds would usually only do it to get my attention when the Horsemaster was away so I could sneak them treats.” Ebrisa proceeded to tuck her hair into some semblance of order. “Fruit was always appreciated, but I did get caught trying to bring a watermelon into the stables.” A tiny smirk tugged at her mouth. “Luckily, it was Emery who spotted me. I know I annoyed him a great deal, but he always helped me when I needed it at home.”

Sebastian chuckled quietly. “Don't worry, should I happen upon your brother, I won't let on that we know he loves you. Imagine the damage that information would do to his well-constructed reputation as a wise-ass.”

She giggled in response, perhaps a bit too loudly. “Andraste preserve him, perish the thought!” When she calmed and directed her attention forward, Ebrisa was startled to find the others looking at her. Heat crawled up her skin, flushing her cheeks in embarrassment and she willed her mouth to remain closed for the rest of the hunt.

They picked the trail back up, finding another clue or two along the way, and steadily climbed a winding path to a large, secluded clearing. The wind would ensure the scent of their various baits would carry far and the space left them plenty of room to fight – and not be sat on, as Tallis pointed out.

The ghast fights had been so sudden that Ebrisa was unable to assist, but they had time to prepare for this encounter and she was determined to be of some use. As Tallis and Hawke began arranging the various bits they'd collected to lure out the wyvern, Ebrisa sank down to her knees and clasped her hands, as though in prayer. Isabela watched her curiously, glancing to Sebastian to see if it was a Chantry thing but only finding a similar confusion. A pale blue light encompassed the mage, swirling gently at her feet as she rose. With a wave of her hand, she connected each member of the group to her aura and startling all but Carver at the sensation.

“What was that?” Hawke grumbled at the sudden warmth.

“Something to keep us on our feet longer,” Carver answered.

The idea of someone messing with her body – for good or ill – without permission put Hawke on edge and she had to restrain herself from snapping at the mage. She knew Ebrisa was only trying to help, trying to do what she could while being unable to join the fight, but the soothing presence still felt like a violation. “Just... ask first next time.”

Tallis splashed herself with the blood they collected, instantly drawing the groups full attention. “What?” She shrugged. “The prey needs to moving, doesn't it?” After a quiet plea for no one to look at her, the elf began prancing around the clearing while doing her best nug call. No one could be certain if it was a good imitation of the little creature, but neither did they want to give it a try themselves.

Snapping wood had Tallis screeching to a stop on the far end of the clearing and turning around to run back to the others. A massive wyvern crashed from the trees, roaring loudly at the hunting party. It lowered its head, growl bubbling in its throat, then charged straight ahead at the most secluded prey – Carver. The templar widened his stance and braced for impact, a shimmering barrier springing into place just before the creature hit. The momentum was only halved by the shielding and Carver slid back several feet, but kept his footing and was able to strike at the wyvern once its charge left it unbalanced.

Hawke whistled at the lizard, drawing its attention and providing her brother another opportunity to attack. Ebrisa did her best to keep barriers over the siblings as they alternated antagonizing the wyvern from separate sides of the clearing. Tallis worked one flank while Isabela attacked the other, the rogues dodging tail swipes and spits of poison as Sebastian shot at every opening and the magically shielded warriors did their best to shoulder the bulk of the creature's fury.

More than once a member of the party would grimace at a particularly painful hit only to feel the warmth of Ebrisa's magic soothe it away near instantly. The sensation would remind them that she was there and, for a moment, wonder what she would be capable of doing in the fight, should she had been granted permission to use other magic. As the wyvern snapped it's teeth against the surface of Hawke's barrier, she could tell it was considerably weakened and changed tactics, swinging her sword against the creature's neck and causing it to stumble. With a roar almost as booming as what the wyvern displayed earlier, Hawke flipped her grip on her weapon and drove the blade home. Bits of blood and poison splattered against her armor harmlessly as the wyvern struggled its last before finally laying still.

“Yes! That was _awesome_!” Tallis pumped her fist excitedly, then noticed the tired and slightly threatening look from the warrior and cleared her throat. “Oh, I mean, good job, Hawke.”

The group barely had a chance to catch their breath before another hunting party entered the clearing. Ebrisa scrambled to recall the Orlesian's name as he tossed insults at Hawke and claimed the kill should have been his, throwing as close to a tantrum as a full grown man could.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize the duke was offering charity to his more useless guests,” Hawke sighed dramatically. “That's the trouble with being a turnip: people only talk to you when its time to go into the stew.”

The noble stomped his foot once again. “You are a disgrace to this contest. Hunting with a mage?” He motioned to Ebrisa with an angry flick of his hand. “It's practically _cheating_.”

“Baron Arlange,” Ebrisa interjected softly, trying to ease the building frustration in the noble. “I'm certain there is no need for-”

“Keep your mouth shut, like the good bitch you are, while your betters talk,” Arlange snapped. “ _That_ is what I _need_.” Sadly, to no one's surprise, she did just that, biting her lip and lowering her eyes almost immediately.

“Hey,” Carver shouted, moving to put himself between his charge and the Orlesian. “Watch it!”

“Why so grumpy, templar? You obviously have her well trained,” Arlange scoffed.

As Carver struggled to come up with something more substantial than swearing, Sebastian calmly addressed the offender. “Baron Arlange? Of Val Chevin?”

The noble straightened, smirking his perceived superiority over the group. “You have heard of me, even in your backwater city out east?”

Sebastian chuckled. “My true city is more eastern than the others, save the Lady Ebrisa here.”

Arlange hummed disinterestedly, waiting for the topic to return to himself.

“If I am not mistaken, _baron_ is the lowest noble title, so you actually rank quite low in the Orlesian social system.” Sebastian paused just long enough for the other man to frown. “Now, I know that Orlais thinks little of the Free Marches, but surely the governing figures are highly regarded.”

“Naturally,” Arlange agreed.

“What of the nobles ranking directly under them?” Sebastian pressed. “They would be regarded the same as a duke, or at least a marquis.”

“For the larger ones,” Arlange relented. “Tantervale, Starkhaven, Ostwick... but Kirkwall – though large – is not so dignified and deserves no true acknowledgment. Your Champion is not above me in social ranking.”

“Oh, I wasn't going to suggest that. Lady Hawke cares little for nobility anyways.”

The warrior snorted, affirming both men's statements.

“Then where are you going with this, Monsieur...?” Arlange trailed off, searching for the man's name. From how the archer spoke, it was obvious he had at least some experience around nobility and his accent did sound much different from the others in his group.

“Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven.” The archer bowed a little and held back a smirk as the Orlesian paled. “And this is Lady Ebrisa, daughter of Bann Randyll Trevelyan of Ostwick. Now, feel free to correct me on this, but I do believe that makes her _your_ better, does it not?”

Arlange turned red with anger as he tried to stutter out a response. “Y-you tricked me!”

“Tricked you?” Sebastian let his smile break free. “Baron, I was just following your own logic. A man of your caliber and astuteness could never fall prey to a trick.”

Isabela and Hawke nearly cackled, finding Sebastian's roundabout way of dealing with the Orlesian more entertaining than the punch Carver was likely to offer. Arlange only grew more enraged as the two laughed behind the innocent looking prince and fumbled to withdraw his weapon, an order for his men to attack on the tip of his tongue.

He just might have gotten away with killing the group and blaming the wyvern – which he would then take the credit of slaying – had Duke Prosper not found them at just that moment. The baron attempted to spin a tale, but Prosper knew him too well and easily dismissed every accusation the frustrated man flung around. The duke shooed him away and congratulated Hawke for her prize before sending a runner to fetch a wagon to carry it, and departing himself.

“That was rather impressive,” Tallis chuckled. “But I wouldn't turn around if I were you, _Your Highness_.”

Sebastian flashed the elf a curious look before ignoring the warning and twisting around to come face to face with a frowning Ebrisa. Her hands were placed firmly on her hips, chin tilted up to hold his gaze with angry, nearly scowling eyes. “Ahh...” Sebastian awkwardly laughed out. “It would seem I have earned the little lady's ire.”

“Indeed,” Ebrisa huffed. “My Lord Sebastian, I was sent by Knight-Commander Meredith to represent the Gallows, _not_ my family.”

“Last time I saw this face, I had Federyc there to help,” he mumbled to himself, the feeling of uneasiness growing more potent as the others watched.

“You antagonized the baron!” The mage continued, the disapproval in her voice making the archer shrink back a little more. “He was about to draw his weapon, to shed needless blood because _you_ could not be the bigger man. It was rude and uncalled for.”

“So we should ignore him entirely?” Sebastian managed to find his rebuttal beneath the verbal finger-wagging. “You have always been too humble, little Lady Ebrisa. You may resign yourself to being subjected to such insults, but those around you will not always stand for it.”

“Insults are but _words_ , my Lord Sebastian. Words can hurt, but I would rather suffer that than allow others to feel the sting of a blade on my behalf,” Ebrisa sighed, her scolding demeanor slipping away. She folded her arms, holding to the burning embers of her wrath, and leaned in a little closer. “And enough of this _little Lady Ebrisa_ nonsense. I am eighteen now – a _woman_.”

Sebastian felt this face heat at the mage's proximity. Her posture had meant to be intimidating, but the crossing of her arms drew the fabric of her robes taut across her ample breasts, all but presenting them to the man. With her body so close, Sebastian noticed for the first time how developed she was, being able to see the figure hiding beneath the layers of Circle robes and wondering if they had been designed specifically to draw attention to the curves of the female form.

He made a very audible gulp and took a few steps back, before clearing his throat with a cough and averting his eyes skyward. “Aye, and if your brothers knew how acutely aware I was of that right now, they'd give me a well deserved thrashing.”

Ebrisa dropped her arms and furrowed her brow in confusion. “And what does that mean?”

“I think it means he's considering breaking his vow of celibacy,” Isabela jumped in before the archer could collect his thoughts. “We'll just get out of here and let you two get in a few good ruts before the party.”

The mage's eyes went wide and her face flushed with heat, earning a very loud laugh from Tallis. “That's amazing! I didn't know humans could get so red!”

“No!” Sebastian blurted out, having found his voice again. “No, no, no.” He held out a steady hand towards Ebrisa, waiting until she met his eyes. “No.”

“Well, why not?” The Rivaini tried her best to sound offended on the mage's behalf. “She looks like she'd be at least a little fun. Not pretty enough for you?”

“The li-” Sebastian stopped himself and tried again. “Lady Ebrisa is, of course, a very lovely woman and any man would be lucky to earn her affections. I, myself, do not have any intentions towards her for no fault of her own.” He paused to glance at the still blushing mage. “Save her friendship, if she would deem me worthy.”

“Seems like you are protesting a bit too hard,” Carver sighed. “You _were_ flirting a bit aggressively earlier. Laid it on real thick.”

Isabela waved off the comment. “That's just how he is – butter.” She smirked and drew her eyes over the mage again. “But if _he_ doesn't want a go...”

A very loud, very annoyed _ahem_ cut through the chatter and the group turned to find Hawke with one hand on her hip and the other pointing to the path behind her. “Sorry to interrupt, but don't we have a party to get to?”

 


	22. Garden Party

After freshening up and changing into the least mage-like robes she had ever worn, Ebrisa rejoined Carver at the base of the stairs. The templar remained in his armor, but had taken the time to clean it up while he waited and together the two entered Chateau Haine's garden. Not long after arriving at the party, Hawke and Tallis – the only other two that changed into more appropriate attire – waved him over. Carver groaned loudly, then promised the mage he would be right back and joined his sister along the hedges.

Ebrisa stood patiently by the fountain, the sun reflecting off the streaming water to cast scattered bursts of light on her silken robes. It closely resembled a style of noble dress she remembered seeing during an All Soul's Day service too many fashion seasons past for any of the other guests to be wearing something similar. There was a sash around her waist, secured in place with a decorative belt bearing the Circle of Magi crest and the short mantle on her shoulders was clasped with a broach engraved with Kirkwall's standard. She felt very much as though she was playing dress up and briefly wondered if Meredith had sent her with that clothing set to better hide her amongst the nobility. It might have worked, if Orlesians were not so fashion focused and the robes weren't embellished so clearly with brands of her residence and loyalty.

The templar returned, more sour than he had been all day. “Of all the stupid, impulsive...” he grumbled to himself. Carver shook his head to dispel the annoyance, remembering all too clearly why he had been so eager to leave his sister's shadow in the first place. He was at Chateau Haine to represent the Gallows and Kirkwall – _not_ to act as lookout for his sister's inane mission. He said he would help with the hunt, which he did, but now Hawke was involving him further in her ill-advised theft.

Its not as though he planned on mingling with the Orlesians or enjoying himself at all during the party, but he wasn't Hawke's lackey or errand boy any longer. He was a knight of the Templar Order, recognized enough by his commander to be entrusted with an escort mission well outside city limits. Carver was his own person, not an extension of his sister's will.

But, Andraste's flaming sword, he didn't want his sister thrown into jail either and if watching for signs of trouble could prevent that...

Carver sighed heavily, resigned to his new task as he watched Duke Prosper praising Hawke and the woman displaying not a single ounce of humility. The templar snorted, knowing he had done just as much damage to the alpha wyvern and that even if he had landed the killing blow, the duke would still have rewarded Hawke. If not for the fact that he was so obviously escorting Ebrisa, Carver was certain the other guests would see him as his sister's squire or something else just as demeaning.

“Pardon me, Ser Templar?” A clearly Orlesian, yet somewhat familiar woman with strawberry blonde hair called out from the corner of the fountain. Carver groaned internally, knowing she was obviously talking to him, and put on his best soldier demeanor before crossing the space towards her. He could hear Ebrisa's steps behind him and was silently grateful that he would not face the older woman alone.

“How may I be of service?” Carver worked hard to keep his tone civil.

The two young women at the lady's side pulled faces as he spoke. “He is _Fereldan_ ,” the one with matching colored hair to the older female hissed in mock secrecy to the other.

“It seems they will let anyone into the templars these days,” the brunette sighed in a barely hushed tone. She smirked just a tiny bit. “You should apply, Babbette. If Meredith is desperate enough to accept turnips, then you just might have a chance.”

“Girls, _please_ ,” the woman shushed, her patience already wearing thin. After a moment of quiet, she directed her attention back to Carver. “Do forgive them, Ser Templar. I'm afraid the wine has loosened my daughters' tongues and robbed them of any trace of tact.”

Thankful that the woman did not join her children in their outward disdain for him on principle, Carver nodded. “Yes, well, it does have that sort of effect.”

“I am Comtess Dulci de Launcet.” She paused, as if waiting for some sort of reaction from the templar. After receiving nothing but another nod, she continued. “My Emile is under your care in Kirkwall. I was hoping you could give me some updates on my sweet boy.”

As Carver was pulled into a conversation with the noble, trying to placate her concerns and refute the various outlandish rumors she had been hearing, the duke's pet wyvern released another roar across the yard. The guests standing beside his cage jumped back in surprise, then laughed and continued their gawking at the creature. There was something strange in the animal's call, sounding much different from the threatening screech the defeated alpha wyvern had used against Hawke's hunting party, and Ebrisa stepped away from her escort to investigate further.

The cage, while large, was too small for the animal and he bucked in a futile effort to stretch his muscles. Leopold was provided just enough space to stand and shift from side to side, but could not turn around or swing his tail. A no longer distinguishable carcass lay in a bloody heap by his head, placating the creature to act relatively calm as the widely spaced bars held him in place against the side of the building. The mage realized that he was on display, a way for the guests that did not participate or otherwise failed in the hunt to express some measure of superiority over wyverns.

Standing at the bars, Ebrisa's eyes fell to the ornate saddle secured to the creature's back, locked in place with a series of straps that extended several feet up the neck to provide extra hand holds. She had heard about people riding wyverns, but it always seemed so fanciful – almost like riding a dragon. The saddle was well polished and the cushioned seat appeared to be recently reupholstered, but the leather strapping was dark and hard with age. There was no padding beneath the saddle and, in truth, the scaled back of a wyvern likely didn't need it, but the exclusion still made Ebrisa frown. The comfort of the mount should be just as important as the rider's.

Leopold made the strange roar again, shaking his head from side to side and drawing a short shriek from a nearby noblewoman. As the wyvern bucked and swished his tail as best he could, Ebrisa realized why the giant lizard's noises sounded familiar – she'd heard similar cries of pain from her family's mounts when the horsemaster was away for too long and inexperienced stablehands clumsily secured the wrong saddles too tightly. Once Leopold stopped thrashing again, the mage lifted the delicate fabric of her robes and stepped over the knee-high bracing and between the just-wide-enough bars into the cage.

Working carefully but efficiently, Ebrisa unbuckled the girth secured around the sensitive flesh at the base of the wyvern's tail. Leopold made a gurgling sound deep in his throat and gave his hind legs an experimental buck, appreciating the slight freedom he'd been granted. The mage eased her hands to his scaled side and the creature calmed, shuffling his front legs to move the spiny protrusions of his wings further from his sides and grant the stranger access to the remaining straps. Another startle cry shot out of one of the nobles, but Ebrisa barely registered the increasing noise behind her as she inspected the bulging around the numerous girths. While the scales of the wyvern's back and flank yielded little against the saddle's supports, the underbelly was left to deal with all the increased tautness as Leopold grew and the saddle remained the same.

Clicking her tongue and huffing in disapproval, Ebrisa undid every buckle and strap she could find. When it became apparent she was too short to push the saddle off, Leopold lowered himself to the ground. The gilded leather contraption fell to the pave stones with a resounding thud after a particularly vocal physical effort from Ebrisa. Leopold rose up and stretched, but hissed in discomfort at the still present sores the riding seat had caused.

The mage ran her hands over the creature's flank, petting him lightly as she spoke quiet, soothing words and slowly called forth her healing magic. She tried to ease the wyvern to the spell, not wanting to spook the obviously mistreated mount with the foreign sensation. When the long-present pain finally lifted, Leopold dropped back to the ground, laying pleasantly on his belly for the first time in months and released a rumbling noise as the mage continued to stroke his flank. If she didn't know better, Ebrisa would have called it a purr.

While she had no experience with wyverns prior to that day, it was impossible to see the stumps along the creature's spine and know they shouldn't be there. The alpha her group had fought earlier in the day had short, spiny fins running down its back that matched the vibrant color of the wings on its forearms and fins at its tail. She touched the worn down bumps gently, coming to the horrific conclusion that Leopold had been mutilated for the singular purpose of accommodating the ornate saddle and satisfy the duke's desire to ride the beast.

Ebrisa carefully stepped around the wyvern's wings and brushed her fingers along the decorated helmet, noting in her growing disgust how much it resembled Duke Prosper's own helm and wondered what features had been marred to make it fit. Leopold's horizontal pupils zeroed in on her as soon as she came into his restricted view, studying the stranger and the sympathetic look she gave him.

Knowing there was nothing else she could do, the woman stepped away from the wyvern and gathered up her robes to exit the cage, only to nearly drop them back down at the sight of the crowd. The few scattered guests that were there when she started had tripled and even more watched from the other side of the hedge. Ebrisa flushed in embarrassment for her impulsive actions and cleared her throat before stepping out of the cage.

The guests fell upon her instantly, talking over each other in an attempt to get their own questions answered first.

“Are you a wyvern-whisperer?”

“Why ever did you do _that_?”

“Did you bewitch the beast?”

“May I have this dance?”

The last question threw Ebrisa for such a loop that she could only register the voice and failed to truly hear the words. “My Lord Sebastian?”

The archer took her hand and smiled lightly at the others. “If you'll pardon us.” He lead her away from the curious nobles and over to the empty section of the garden in front of the musicians. It was intended for dancing, but the majority of the guests seemed more than content to drink and gossip, paying little heed to the music drifting in the air. As such, the ensemble didn't bother playing anything elaborate and cycled through simple rondels and estampie. The flutist squeaked out a fumbled note, startled by the sudden appearance of the archer and mage.

“I do hope you remember how to do this,” Sebastian whispered to Ebrisa as he guided her into position. “It's been a while since I was at court myself, so I may need some assistance.”

Ebrisa released an uneasy laugh, feeling more eyes on her than she had a minute ago. “Yes, well, we shall see.”

The next tune began and the mage relaxed, recognizing it and the dance it called for. She settled her left hand lightly in Sebastian's and – despite the prince's supposed concern – the two of them fell into the steps easily. “I expected no less from Lady Ebrisa. You always did watch the dance floor with rapt focus.”

She giggled lightly as she performed the first turn. “What else is there for a child to do at balls?”

“Climb into wyvern cages, perhaps?” Sebastian gripped her hand a little firmer as she came back to position, ensuring she didn't stumble in her embarrassment. “Didn't we just spend the day hunting one of those?”

“We stalked wild creatures, not mistreated mounts,” Ebrisa huffed. “True that wyverns are not your typical stead and as such their care is not really documented anywhere, but some measures should ring true to all mounts.”

“And what would those be?”

She hummed softly, recalling her time spent at the horsemaster's side and direct lessons from her father. “Mutual respect, for one. I've seen plow horses treated better...” She glanced to the archer as she turned again. “Placing a girth beneath the tail? That's just _asking_ to get thrown from the saddle.”

Sebastian chuckled, shifting his hold as the music changed. “Couldn't just let it be or speak to the owner about that. A Trevelyan through-and-through.”

 

“Do you think I have to put _everything_ about the party in my report?” Carver glanced over at the Rivaini standing beside him, the two of them switching between checking the guards' movements and watching the single pair of dancers. “I'd really prefer to not let the Knight-Commander know Trevelyan wandered into a wyvern cage while a comtess asked me about her mage son.”

Isabela chuckled, finding humor in the templar's plight. “True, that might not go over so well.” Ebrisa's voice cut across the yard, giggling as Sebastian lowered her into a swift, exaggerated dip. “But she seems to have come out of it no worse for wear.”

“If I could have fit between the bars, I would have yanked Trevelyan back as soon as that de Launcet girl pointed her out,” the templar grumbled. He stilled, then snorted. “Of course, if _that_ went into the report, the knight-captain would likely berate me for manhandling her again.”

At that, the woman raised a brow and focused her full attention to the younger Hawke. “Well, well. Manhandling the mages, are we?”

Carver folded his arms and leaned a little against the stone column behind him. “She's kind of jumpy, right? I mean, you saw her nearly throw her journal at least twice today.” Isabela nodded, wordlessly encouraging the templar to continue. “Well, I startled her and she fell over in the library a few months ago and we sort of ended up in a compromising looking situation.” He ruffled his hair and rolled his eyes. “Knight-Captain Cullen found us and yelled at me pretty intensely, citing regulations he assumed I was breaking just because Trevelyan was sitting on top of me and... uh...” He trailed off, realizing the damage Isabela could do with further details.

“I'm with him on this one,” she chuckled. “That is some pretty damning evidence.”

“Regardless,” Carver continued, “he's been watching me closely ever since then.” He let out a heavy sigh. “The way he looked at me while informing me of this assignment was like he was jealous or something.”

Isabela laughed. “Yeah, I'd be upset if someone else got a _vacation from Meredith_ card, too.”

“No, I mean...” Carver stopped and slowly collected the bits of information scattered across his memory. “Flames. He _is_ jealous.” The templar gave the woman no time to respond. “When he went off on me about fraternizing with mages, he said _her._ He only keeps an eye on me when my duties bring me close to Trevelyan.”

“Now hold on here, let me get this straight.” Isabela held up a hand, waiting until the warrior met her eyes. “You're saying that Ser _Mages-cannot-be-treated-like-people_ has a thing for that meek little thing over there?”

“He's got to!” Carver dropped his arms and let out a single puff of laughter. “This mission is basically spending unsupervised time with her, and he glared so intensely as we left, like he was _daring_ me to try something.”

A wide grin threatened to overtake Isabela's face at the possibilities this new information provided. It was well known that the knight-captain didn't visit the _Blooming Rose_ or any other such establishments, but she'd always just thought him a prude. The way Ebrisa blushed from the relatively tame conversations today meant she wasn't taking part in any sort of physical intimacy with anyone, let alone a rule-breaking tryst with a templar officer, so if Cullen _did_ have a thing for her, he hadn't acted on it yet. If he was merely denying his attraction, it would only be a matter of time before he exploded.

~~~~~~~~~  
“There you are, my mage-y friend!” Hawke called out with a forced smile as she approached Ebrisa and Sebastian, Tallis and a dark-haired man close behind her. She shot the archer a look that said _go with it_ before turning to the stranger that now stood at her side. “This is Duke Prosper's son, Lord Cyril.” The man gave a humble bow. Hawke flashed a pleading look to the mage, knowing the blonde was in the dark about the secret mission and hoping she'd assist in this small way. All Tallis needed was Cyril to be distracted for a moment. “Lord Cyril, this is Ebrisa Trevelyan.”

Ebrisa hide her confusion well and dipped straight down in a curtsey, one hand posed delicately over her chest and the other lifting the side of her robes. She understood even at a young age that simple introductions could be used for any number of purposes and to always treat them as vastly important.

“Trevelyan, is it?” Cyril inclined his head slightly. “Not of the Ostwick branch, I suppose?”

“In fact I am, my lord.” Ebrisa did not hesitate to speak of her family this time, since whispers of it were already making their way through the guests.

“Then it is my absolute pleasure to meet you, _Lady_ Ebrisa.” He held out his hand, Ebrisa slipping her own into his grasp instinctively, and kissed the back of her hand. The mage blushed faintly, loosing the mask of pleasant expression she had been wearing thus far. Cyril chuckled at her reaction and released her fingers, presenting his elbow. “Might I offer you a tour of the grounds?”

Ebrisa felt her mouth drop slightly in surprise, but quickly regained control and darted her eyes to Hawke. It was clear the warrior had some reason for introducing the noble to her and she didn't want to do anything now that might undermine that. Hawke gave her a semi-subtle thumbs up and the mage quickly pulled up her mother's lessons before proceeding.

“I would be honored, Lord Cyril.” She bobbed in a short curtsey before daintily placing her hands around the noble's bent arm, trying to mimic the proper angles and hold. Too much pressure and she would appear overly eager or forward and too light a touch would show disinterest or disrespect. Sensing no change in Cyril's demeanor, Ebrisa could only hope she had acted correctly and quietly allowed the man to lead her around the garden.

He spoke of the history of the chateau and how his family acquired the surrounding lands. Ebrisa responded with polite interest, feigning surprise when Cyril unveiled a supposed secret or two that was actually well known to any who studied history. The other guests gave them a wide birth, but could not refrain from whispering to each other and theorizing what the duke's son was up to by humoring the mage. She was claiming noble heritage, but a mage is a mage and after the party was over she would need to return to her tower and templar guards. Fifi de Launcet suggested, rather loudly, that Cyril was playing a marvelous joke by showing the blonde the life she could never have.

“May I interest you in some Antivan olives?” An elven servant bent slightly at the waist, sweeping her tray of imported foods in front of the pair.

Cyril shot the elf an unamused look, obviously displeased at the interruption, but Ebrisa brightened and gently detached herself from the noble. “Oh, thank you.” The servant hid her surprise at the rare show of decency and kept her eyes down as Ebrisa selected one of the stuffed olives. Not wanting to appear unladylike by opening her mouth too much, she brought the small bite to her lips, gently sliding it inside until her finger pressed flush against them. When she did bite down, Ebrisa was unable to restrain the quiet, delighted squeak at the carefully crafted layers of flavor in the unassuming snack.

“Antivan olives always have the best brine,” the mage sighed quietly. “Not so salty that it masks the natural nutty flavor, but still enough that it enhances and compliments the stuffing.”

“My, my, a connoisseur,” Cyril chuckled softly at her side, reminding the mage where she was. “I wonder what your neglected palate thinks of this.” He pierced a small cube of meat from the tray with one of the provided miniature forks Ebrisa had missed. Cyril held it out towards her with a smirk. “Smoked ham from the Anderfels.”

She reached for the offered piece, intending to grasp the fork just above Cyril's own fingers, but the nobleman pulled his hand away at the last moment. He lowered the sample again, bringing it closer to the woman's mouth this time and raising a brow. Ebrisa stared at the perfectly cut cube, then darted her eyes to the elven servant just a few feet away. The elf was doing her best to not pay attention, but the faint coloring of her cheeks gave her away and Ebrisa felt her own face heat as she shifted her gaze to Cyril. Surely he didn't mean to...

“Ah?” Cyril waved the fork ever so slightly, smirk still in place.

Struggling to keep the reddening of her skin to a minimum, Ebrisa opened her mouth and allowed the duke's son to feed her. He withdrew the now empty fork slowly from her closed mouth, dragging the small prongs across her bottom lip with an all too practiced calm. Cyril stubbornly held on to the utensil, twirling it between his fingers instead of depositing it in the used pile on the servant's tray, and watched as Ebrisa chewed, following the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

“Well? How was it?”

Ebrisa took a few discreet breaths to ensure she would actually have a voice when she answered. “It was... there was a heat to it. The Anderfels is known for its spices, so I suppose it was smoked with an array of those.” She sincerely hoped he wouldn't make her do that again.

“They say it tastes of despair,” Cyril hummed, studying the bit of metal in his hand. “What do you say to that?”

Despair?

The mere mention of the word trudged up memories of Ebrisa's Harrowing and the embarrassed flush of her skin vanished. “Despair tastes of naught but your own failings and loneliness. Despair is cold, chilling. It freezes you until you feel nothing could possibly make you warm again. I'd say that those who fling around the word so callously as to use it to describe _food_ have not truly experienced it themselves.” Ebrisa blinked and refocused on the man before her, startled to see the unmasked surprise on his – up until now – calm and pleasant features.

Cyril broke the uncomfortable silence with a chuckle and tossed the fork over his shoulder. “A philosopher as well? You've dropped some hints, but I wonder what other mysteries I can unravel about you, my Lady Ebrisa.” He placed a hand to the small of her back, directing the mage across the garden to another servant, this one carefully supporting half-filled wine glasses.

The servant turned at their approach, dipping his head respectfully. “May I interest you in some wine?”

“And what variety are you offering?” Cyril asked, removing his hand from the mage.

“Montsimmard Red, messere.”

The nobleman's smirk widened as he picked up two glasses. “Perfect.” He proceeded to pour the contents from one glass into the other, ignoring the barely masked look of concern from the servant. “Montsimmard Red is a wonderfully sweet wine that I trust you shall enjoy.” Cyril handed the nearly full glass to Ebrisa before replacing the empty glass with a fresh one from the tray.

Ebrisa stared at the dark liquid with trepidation, worrying her bottom lip just a little. “Oh, but I haven't... I- I shouldn't...”

“We ordered the wine specifically for today,” Cyril began as he lightly swished the contents of his own glass. “The barrels were carried up the mountain _by hand._ Such dedication and effort shouldn't be put to waste.”

She made a quiet, uncomfortable noise, pursing her lips at her reflection in the drink. Cyril was the son of the host and it would be rude to snub the host at his own event. Ebrisa took a timid sip, finding that it was indeed very sweet, but carried some other notes she couldn't place. The longer the taste lingered on her tongue, the closer she felt she as to identifying them. When she went in for a second, longer sip, Ebrisa entirely missed the almost devious glint in Cyril's eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we see another instance of inane, real-world research done for my story.  
> There is a type of fortified wine made with the white Muscat grapes or red Grenache grapes of southern France called 'vin doux naturel' that is naturally sweet and has a very high alcohol content - around 20% abv. That's, like, a lot.
> 
> See, what Ebrisa was trying to say was she had never consumed alcohol before and since the wine Cyril gives her is a Montsimard red, which is in southern Orlais, its safe to say her too-full glass will not go easy on her.  
> Did I need to mess around in DA2 prompting dialogue at Chateau Haine to see what drinks they were serving? Probably not.  
> Did I need to find a real-world equivalent to a region specific drink that would hinder my pure little mageling? No.  
> Did I need to spend an entire day researching wine for a few sentences instead of writing several pages? That'd be a big negatory, but its how I justify procrastination.....


	23. Revelatioins

As the mage worked her way through the wine in her hand, Cyril pretended to do the same, bringing the glass to his lips and tipping it, but never enough for the liquid to actually enter his mouth. He found that as Ebrisa was loosing her hesitation and embarrassment, she was retaining a respectable amount of manners and posture. Though she smiled and giggled far more than she had been at the start of the garden party, she appeared to still be a perfectly respectable lady and remained immensely polite. He also discovered, to his delight, that she was incredibly susceptible to suggestion.

With her posture and steps unaffected, Cyril was able to lead her away from the other guests and towards the chateau without any suspicion. His hand went to his belt, feeling for the keys that would allow him access to one of the many guest rooms, and stiffened when his fingers found nothing. He blanched slightly, realizing he'd lost the set and that his father would be none too pleased to hear that news. Cyril pressed his lips into a tight line, knowing he'd have to abandon the mage and his plans for the evening until he could find the missing keys. Reluctantly, he directed Ebrisa towards the fountain and did just that.

“ _There_ you are,” Isabela sighed dramatically as she threw her arms forward, walking briskly over to the mage.

Ebrisa jumped a little at the sudden voice, but quickly recovered and smiled, addressing the Rivaini woman with the agreed upon title. “Captain Isabela!” She brought the back of her hand to her mouth and giggled lightly. “Here I am!”

Isabela stilled, eying the woman carefully. “You're drunk.”

She giggled again, shaking her head at the idea. “I only had one glass, silly. How could that make me drunk?”

“With the right alcohol and a big enough glass, _just one_ can make anybody drunk off their ass.” The Rivaini sighed again, this time out of envy. Hawke had explicitly forbidden her from taking a single sip of anything besides water during the party since they were _working_ and _on the job_. Didn't Hawke understand that being surrounded by liquor and forbidden from having any would only make her dashing, roguish friend more distracted? If she wanted her to be focused, then Hawke really should have given consent to at least one drink.

Isabela took the empty glass and set it on the tray of a passing servant before guiding the inebriated mage to the fountain's ledge. “You should sit down for a bit.”

“Oh, yes, Lord Cyril said something like that too.” Ebrisa craned her neck, looking for the noble. “He said we were going to go inside and lay down together.”

“Nope. Bad idea.” Isabela plopped herself down beside the mage, determined to make it impossible for Cyril to whisk the woman away again. “Sitting is much better. Yep, sitting out in the open with tons of witnesses. That's just the best.”

“Oh, okay.” Ebrisa hummed as she shifted on the ledge, twisting to reach down and run her fingers through the water. The sky had already darkened and servants busied themselves with lighting the elegant lanterns dotted across the garden, casting yellow light in the fading pink hues reflected in the fountain.

Isabela couldn't deny the blonde was pretty, having teased her all day partially out of boredom, but wasn't certain if she was _rule-breaking_ pretty. Not for a templar officer, at least. Looking at her now – face relaxed and flushed, eyes half-lidded, and a pleasant, drunk smile in place – Isabela was beginning to see how she might have been mistaken. A little makeup, a few clothing alterations, less dowdy hair styling, and the woman could be a real knock out. If Cullen was already into her and she was given less freedom with her appearance in the Circle, then there had to be something else about Ebrisa that caught the knight-captain's eye. That is, if Carver wasn't mistaken. He wasn't exactly the best with reading people, after all.

“So,” Isabela began after her not so subtle, though entirely unnoticed, inspection. “Sweet thing like you must have loads of friends in the Circle.”

Ebrisa frowned, pouting her lips as she splashed at her wavy reflection. “People don't like to talk to me. They say things that... not nice things.”

The older woman twisted her face in confusion. “I think your _one glass_ has affected your memory. You can't possibly expect me to believe you have zero friends.”

The mage made a noise that was something between a hum and a whine, swaying back and forth a little in thought. “No, not zero. There's Vemara and Edan... and Feynriel, but he's...”

“Yeah,” Isabela sighed. “I remember.”

Ebrisa pulled her hand from the water, pressing her wet fingertips to the stone ledge and leaving little, dark circles between herself and Isabela. “Do... do you want to be my friend?” She looked up at the pirate under her lashes, worrying on her bottom lip and conveying both an innocent hopefulness and an almost seductive plea.

Isabela blinked, suddenly understanding what could have roped Cullen. She chuckled deep in her chest and tilted the mage's chin up with a single finger. “Sure thing, sweetheart. I'll be your friend.” The way Ebrisa instantly brightened and straightened reminded the Rivaini of a puppy eager for approval and she proceeded to give the mage a few head pats. “But you do have other friends in the Circle, right? What about the knight-captain?”

“Knight-captain?” Ebrisa furrowed her brow a little, seemingly having trouble finding the person in her memory.

“Cullen?” Isabela offered with an encouraging wave of her hands.

“Cullen,” Ebrisa repeated slowly, taking care as she formed the name with her lips and a hidden flick of her tongue. She smiled gently, brushing her hair behind her ear and blushing just a little bit more. “Cullen.”

Isabela hummed and smirked widely at the mage's reaction. It was almost adorable. “I've heard he's... rather friendly towards you.”

Ebrisa's face twisted into a hard to read expression, made all the more difficult to decipher by her inebriated state. “He's... not supposed to be.” She fiddled with her fingers, rubbing the lingering water from her skin. “There are rules. He'll get in trouble if he breaks them. I-I don't want him to get in trouble...” Ebrisa mumbled as she lowered her eyes, staring at the fountain once again.

“Oh, that is so true,” Isabela gasped, as though only then realizing the problem with a mage and templar fraternizing. She shrugged, dismissing the issue. “Well, I guess he should just leave you alone forever. You know, to be safe.”

The blonde redirected her attention instantly, eyes brimming with tears and trembling pout in place at the mere mention of Isabela's suggestion. “But...”

“You don't want him to stay away?”

Ebrisa shook her head emphatically.

“Even though you both could get in trouble?”

The mage nodded with just as much enthusiasm.

Isabela clicked her tongue and folded her arms, feigning a deep concern. “That is a conundrum, puppy love. Is his friendship so important?”

Ebrisa became very still, her expression going blank and for a moment Isabela thought the mage had sobered up. “Cullen... he makes me feel safe, feel warm. He always seems to know what to say. I don't feel so... wrong... when he's near.” She giggled suddenly and leaned back, the flush on her skin all the brighter. “No one else makes me feel like that. I wonder why that is.”

The older woman shifted on the ledge, a little uncomfortable. “I'm sure I don't know.” She'd expected a drunken comment or two about thinking the man was attractive, something lustful that could be easily categorized or carnal that was relatable, but this...

“We have a problem,” Carver whispered harshly as he approached the women.

“I'll say we do,” Isabela replied with a wave of her hand. “Your charge is drunk.”

The templar quickly inspected Ebrisa, cursing under his breath as he confirmed her condition. “Alright, we have _two_ problems.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
It was Carver who first noticed. With the assumption that Ebrisa was safely at Sebastian's side, the templar focused the entirety of his attention on the chevalier presence, studying their patrol patterns and guard rotations. So when the first Orlesian sentry withdrew from his post and was replaced with a less armored watchman, Carver grew suspicious. When the third and fourth polished soldier vacated the garden party, he was certain something was wrong. He quickly sought out the others, finding Isabela moments before Sebastian strode up to the group and announced Duke Prosper had just been called away. In less time than it took them to release a shared sigh, they concluded Hawke and Tallis had been caught.

Carver should have suspected that the daft plan would fall through, as his sister had a knack for taking a simple task and turning it into an _adventure_ with great enthusiasm. The dungeons of Chateau Haine were nothing to scoff at and, though Hawke would insist she didn't need any help breaking out of whatever dark cell she'd surely been chucked in, her friends were determined to sneak away from the tittering nobles and break her out. It would be difficult, as none knew the layout, but they felt confident at least one of them could navigate the lower levels well enough.

 

“Hush now, puppy love,” Isabela whispered to the softly giggling mage. “We have to be very quiet on this secret mission.”

Ebrisa nodded, shaking her curly hair free of its confines until the wisps framed her face. She gasped lightly, struck with an idea, and placed both hands over her mouth to prevent sound from escaping.

“How could you let her get like this?” Sebastian admonished the warrior, not for the first time that evening. “I thought you were supposed to be watching her.”

“Last I saw, she was with _you_ ,” Carver shot back.

“ _I_ was not tasked with keeping the Lady Ebrisa from harm.”

“Well _I_ did not come to this Orlesian prance-about with the intention of _stealing_ something, so forgive me if my attention was a little divided.” Carver was well aware he had been performing his duty with anything but competency, but he didn't need to be reminded of it at every turn.

“Now boys,” Isabela chided, “no need to get so hot and bothered, you're both pretty.” The men shot her incredulous looks in varying degrees and it took all she had to keep her laughter from bouncing down the hall.

The humor of the situation faded the longer they wandered the dungeons, irritation growing in its stead as time and time again they found themselves passing the same cracked tile or chipped cornice.

“And we are back to front yet again,” Carver grumbled.

“Blessed Andraste, guide us,” Sebastian began reverently as he studied the space for clues to their direction. “Protect our friends in this dark hour.”

Carver snorted. “Right. Prayer. Useful, useful.” As a templar, he really should be showing a bit more respect for the action, but the maze-like corridor and his sister's prolonged imprisonment had worn his patience thin. “Or we could _do something_.”

“Guide us by the wisdom of your light,” Sebastian continued mostly unphased, the sidelong glance he leveled at the warrior the only indication he had heard him at all, “ _in silence_.”

“Look here, sweethearts,” Isabela sighed with a flippant flick of her hand. “We tried running around like idiots and praying for divine intervention, so how's about we backtrack to that guard we ducked away from and you let me coax some directions from him?”

Neither man seemed to approve of the idea or felt entirely convinced that directions were all she hoped to coax. They pressed on down the corridor, trying to keep track of the turns in their heads while quietly arguing amongst themselves. Having had enough of Sebastian and Carver snapping at each other in a completely unproductive way, Isabela smacked the both of them on the back of the head.

“Why can't you boys just behave? Follow this one's example and cover your damn mouths already.” She jutted a thumb behind her, intending to point out the silent mage. The incredibly, unnervingly silent...

The three of them stared down the empty passage, pushed to that blessed silence from the shock of having lost the fourth member of the rescue party. Carver threw back his head and groaned. At this rate, his report would ensure he _never_ received a full knighthood.

~~~~~~~~~

Ebrisa was uncertain why Hawke was hiding in the dungeons, but the dark-haired woman had managed to find a very good spot to do so. The mage watched helplessly as the others slowly grew tense and frustrated as they tried to find their friend, obviously eager to return to the party they had traveled so far to attend. In the end, it was Isabela's idea of asking for directions that seemed the most promising, but Sebastian and Carver kept ignoring it. When they stopped to argue once again, Ebrisa decided to take it upon herself to act out the pirate's plan.

She wandered away from the others, finding the doorway they had been taking such care to avoid earlier, and poking her head through. A chevalier started at her sudden appearance, speaking clipped words that took a moment to process. Ebrisa blinked a few times in confusion, then giggled and walked the rest of the way through the arch in the wall.

“Hello, ser knight. Are you lost as well?”

He straightened, his apprehension difficult to notice under the solid visor of his helm. “I... I am on sentry duty.”

“Ah, then you know the area well, yes?” Ebrisa released a pleased hum, delighted to have found a guide. “I heard the Champion of Kirkwall was down here, but I can't find her.” She frowned, finding speaking to the metal face unsettling, and lifted the helm away from the chevalier's human one. The action brought her much closer to the man, nearly having to press herself against him to remove the ornate headpiece. “Could you take me to her?”

The guard took the helmet from the mage, fully intending to pull the thing back on and sound the alarm.

“Please?” Ebrisa gently urged, clasping her hands together and pursing out her bottom lip just a little. “I would be ever so grateful.”

He stilled, glancing around quickly for signs of oncoming patrols that might question him. “How grateful?”

“Very, _very_ grateful,” she instantly responded, dipping slightly to add emphasis.

The man grinned and extended an elbow. “I look forward to your gratitude, dear lady.”

Ebrisa giggled and took hold of his offered arm, lacing her own around it and pressing herself against his side so they could fit through the doorway. “A shining knight in my hour of desperate need.”

 

The trio generously threw blame around, having not only lost Ebrisa but being lost themselves and no closer to finding Hawke or Tallis. At least they'd located the confiscated equipment. Isabela picked up on the approaching footsteps first, noting from the pattern of the steps that it was at least two people, and she quickly ushered the men behind a pillar to hide. Sebastian began to protest, but the echoing sound of voices cut him off and he listened intently, in case the passerbys gave a clue to Hawke's location. There were two speakers – a male and female – and they were chatting lightly in Orlesian about the dungeon and, to the archer's relief, about the Champion of Kirkwall. He was content to wait for the pair to pass and stealthily follow them, but then the female giggled.

The Kirkwallers all straightened, recognizing the sound as one they had been treated to a great deal that night. They watched in mixed confusion and awe as Ebrisa and the chevalier walked by their pocket of shadow, oblivious to the would-be rescuers. Isabela expertly trailed the persuaded guide with barely a whisper of rustling fabric, Sebastian following a little ways back with his slightly noisier approach. Caver brought up the rear, trying to mask the clank of his plate armor as much as possible while still keeping the archer in sight.

 

Hawke sat cross-legged on the cell's bench, shaking her head to loosen some of the still fresh disbelief and sense of betrayal. Tallis, the elf – the _Qunari_ – stretched out on the floor with little regard for the dirty stone or fine fabric of her clothing. The revelation in the vault had left Hawke stunned, but time had turned the shock to anger and she threw heated questions at Tallis ranging from _why ask for my help_ to _are you going to try and take Isabela, too_?

Tallis insisted she had no intentions towards the pirate, that the former Arishok's death had settled the matter of _The Tome of Koslun_... so long as Isabela stayed away from other Qunari relics, she needn't be concerned. With everything the Arishok put both Kirkwall in general and Hawke's friends personally through, she couldn't promise Isabela wouldn't snatch up something else out of pure spite.

“Look, Hawke,” Tallis tried once again. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry I wasn't up front with this and just asked for your help with what I _really_ needed.”

The warrior perked up and lifted a hand. “Shush, Ben-has-rut.”

“ _Ben-Hassrath,_ ”Tallis correct for the fourth time.

“Whatever, Benny. We got company.”

Sure enough, the echoing voices grew louder and filled the tense air with unfamiliar words. Though she didn't understand what was being said, Hawke was able to recognize the speech as Orlesian from its fluid pattern and softness. A small part of her could appreciate the rhythm of the language as something beautiful. A very, very small part. She _did_ have her reputation as a Fereldan to uphold, after all.

A chevalier came into view, sweeping the helm in his hand towards the cell and bowing just a little to the woman at his side, announcing the caged guest. At least, that's what Hawke assumed he said, seeing as she could only make out something that sounded like a slurring rendition of _champion_ and the awkward way his accent hit the hard consonants in _Kirkwall_.

To both the prisoner's surprise, the woman rushed over to the cell door with a wide, cheery smile. “ _Bonsoir,_ Messere Hawke!” She pouted, mumbling something to herself in Orlesian with a very chastising tone before repeating the same softened title the guard had used a moment ago.

“Trevelyan?” Hawke pulled herself off the bench, starring at the mage. “What are you doing down here?”

Ebrisa tilted her head, slowly mulling over the words as though she couldn't understand the question. There was a loud clang as the chevalier hit the floor, Carver's fist still hanging in the air from the swift blow he used to knock the man out.

“Feel better now that you hit something?” Isabela smirked lightly, already working the cell door's lock.

“Little bit,” he admitted with a shrug.

“Men,” she scoffed, though her voice was laced with humor. The cell swung open almost effortlessly and the Rivaini wondered if the captives could have freed themselves long ago.

“We've brought your gear.” Sebastian held out Hawke's kit once she stepped into the corridor, waiting for her to take it before doing the same with Tallis. “I suggest you make ready quickly. More guards could be along any moment.”

Isabela snickered, leaning on the mage's shoulder as the former prisoners strapped on bits of armor and weapons. “Don't worry, I'm sure this one can seduce a few more chevaliers.”

“Seduce?” Ebrisa repeated, uncertain if her mind had switched back to Common just yet. “I-I didn't seduce anyone.”

The pirate chuckled deep in her chest, making the mage acutely aware of how close that chest was. “I may not know a stitch of Orlesian past _another round_ and _where's the privy_ , but I am well versed in body language, puppy love.”

Ebrisa pouted in self-defense. “I did not seduce him, Captain Isabela. I didn't say a single thing that was naughty.” Not that she would know anything naughty to say anyways.

“While that is _technically_ true,” Sebastian hesitantly began, the only other person there that could understand more than a few words of the earlier small talk, “I'm fairly certain the guard took your comments with a very different intent. Words, in any language, often have a double meaning and with the way you... um... _supported_ yourself beside him, I'm afraid Isabela is correct. Intentional or no, you seduced the poor man. He never stood a chance.”

The mage's face heated, her hazy mind unable to find an appropriate or dignified rebuttal to the perceived slight on her character. She fumbled for a response, broken words and whining noises falling from her lips as the group got underway at last and made for Tallis' escape route. Isabela made it a point to wait for the others to be ignoring the blonde before leaning in close and whispering in her ear.

“Don't worry, puppy love. I won't tell your other captain.”

The promise did nothing to help Ebrisa's flushed skin or fragmented speech, resulting instead to only worsen her conditions.

 


	24. Cheaters Never Prosper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because my Hawke loves puns, that's why.

The rest of the escape from the dungeons was a blur. Ebrisa remembered ghast screeching that made her head pound, an underground lake, and being ushered behind various rock formations for safety. Inbetween the sounds of battle, she recalled the others talking. Her mind was too far gone to comprehend the discussions at the time or remember the words at all after the fact, but the tones – angry, confused, pleading – that, at least, she understood.

When they stepped out of the caverns at last, the too bright morning sun flooded their vision and drew a semi-swear from the mage as she covered her eyes to block the light. Her giddiness had faded, the alcohol having more or less run the _enjoyable_ portion of its course and leaving the blonde with the beginnings of her first hangover. She groaned quietly, taking a few wobbly steps towards the shade of the trees so she could open her eyes and actually look around. When she had managed to do just that, she noticed Tallis was no longer with them.

“We have to keep moving,” Hawke called out, looking over her shoulder at the tunnel they'd just escaped from. “The duke's guards won't be far behind.”

“I think the Lady Ebrisa needs another moment to adjust.” Sebastian handed his waterskin to the mage once again, reminding her to take slow sips.

“We don't _have_ a moment.” Hawke surveyed the clearing, searching for the path. “Why did you guys even _bring_ her?”

Carver let out an annoyed breath. “Forgive us for coming to your rescue.”

“Could have done without the tipsy mage,” she shot back, equally annoyed.

“The duke's son – who _you_ encouraged her to go with, by the way – got Lady Ebrisa drunk.” Sebastian shot both the siblings a disappointed frown. “That was not something any of us anticipated and we had to make a snap decision.”

“Or rather we let one of the coins from the fountain make it for us,” Isabela added, digging through her pouch. “Heads she came with us, tails she stayed behind by herself.”

“A coin from the fountain?” Hawke repeated dryly. “You mean a caprice coin?”

Isabela shrugged, lifting a few vials to the light and squinting at them.

“Caprice coins have the same face on both sides.”

“Oh...” The pirate returned all but one glass container to her pouch. “It turned out for the best. Puppy love discovered she has game, we discovered she can speak Orlesian, and she found you in that damn labyrinth.”

“Yes, that makes carrying her around ghast-infested caverns _totally_ worth it.”

Isabela handed the vial to the mage and instructed her to drink, ignoring Hawke's sarcastic comment for the moment. Once the cork was popped and Ebrisa downed the bitter liquid, Isabela patted her head like an obedient child. “Well, if we had left her alone back at that party – especially for so long - _Monsieur Fancy-pants, Jr._ would have forced his way into hers.” It was fortunate she'd waited until Ebrisa had already swallowed, or else the mage would have choked.

The group was given no time to process what Isabela said, ghast streaming from their holes and guards clomping out of the tunnel, both sets of enemies ready to fight. Ebrisa was still fighting her own enemies and unable to concentrate on helping the group, but she encouraged Sebastian to move where the skirmish needed him. She rubbed at her temples, trying to focus past the pounding so she could assist the others, and found the discomfort slowly begin to lift. Whatever Isabela had given her, it seemed to be working.

By the time the danger had passed, she was able to walk steadily and only needed to squint a little against the sun. They regrouped and pressed on down the disused path, following it along a small creak while keeping an eye out for ghast holes and an ear out for chevaliers.

“You certainly fill out a skirt, Carver,” Isabela hummed when she was certain they'd lost their pursuers. “A shame, I suppose you're all religious and such now.” The idea of yet another strapping man devoted to Andraste soured her tone.

The templar smirked just a bit. “Do you know how long the Chant of Light is? How much stamina it requires?”

The Rivaini raised a brow, intrigued. “Go on...”

Despite what the outside world may like to think, the templar barracks were filled with just as many lewd discussions as any other military group. Sure, there were the pious and virtuous in the ranks, but for those who were recruited after already experiencing carnal pleasures, suddenly being in charge of watching mages did not erase the dirty thoughts from their minds. Carver was likely exposed to more elicit stories during his templar training than his time working off the family debt with Meeran.

“ _With passion'd breath comes darkness,_

_but with many against Her,_

_She finds His light untiring as it parts the Veil.”_

Isabela made a show of shivering. “I'm not sure if I'm aroused or scared. I like it.”

“Don't do that to the Chant!” Sebastian called from the back of the group, completely mortified the templar had twisted scripture.

“Shush, you,” Isabela snapped.

When Carver turned back to the archer to try and feign innocence – something he was never very good at – his eyes locked on the confused mage, relieved that the implied double meaning of the quote was lost on her. The last thing he wanted was for Ebrisa to stare at him like Bethany did after she caught him and Peaches behind Barlin's shed.

The path lead them across a small bridge and somehow the group was able to sneak past two wyverns fighting each other. Taking down one wyvern when fully rested and properly prepared had been difficult enough, and with Ebrisa barely regaining her focus, they didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. More ghasts, more guards, and just as Hawke was becoming convinced the mountain was actually hollow and filled to the brim with the enemies instead of rock, they stumbled upon some not-so-abandoned ruins.

Duke Prosper, along with an impressive contingent of chevaliers, stood across from a modest Qunari force. They were too far away for Ebrisa to make out what they were saying or understand what they were doing, and she couldn't be entirely certain that the lingering effects of the wine weren't playing tricks on her senses. Whatever the two groups were doing, it no longer seemed to be a peaceful negotiation.

It was then that the duke noticed the uninvited guests, pulling on a thinly veiled mask of civility. “Ah, the Fereldan. You just keep turning up.”

Hawke snickered. “Cause I'm a _turnip._ I get it.” She cursed the silence that followed, knowing that Varric at least would have appreciated the pun. “Right, so, here I was, just trying to find my way off this mountain... and where do I end up? Your shady deal with Qunari! My, what are the chances?”

At that, Prosper did chuckle. “And I suppose I should just let you go? A thief who tried to rob my home?”

“Think of it less _tried to rob_ and more _tested the security._ I'd tighten those patrol patterns, if I were you.”

The Orlesian set his jaw, tightening his lips as the utterly unamused look spread across his face. He turned to a guard, preparing to relay an order, when Tallis wretched the seemingly useless scroll from the chevalier and threw down a smoke bomb. The momentary distraction allowed the elf time to jump away to safety, not stopping until she was overlooking the broken ruins and well out of anyone's reach. She shared angry words with the central Qunari, the male trying one last time to convince her to not get involved and leave.

Duke Prosper had other ideas.

He withdrew a weapon from his side, something akin to a crossbow, and fired a bright green glob at his failed trade partner. The glob spread out, expanding as it clung to his chest and arm, and a hush fell over the ruins as the Qunari tried to reason what manner of attack the noble had used. A piecing roar cut through the air, drawing the group's attention upward as Leopold bounded down the broken arches and pillars, zeroing in on the Qunari leader. The wyvern made no sign of hesitation before snapping the horned figure in its jaws and tearing him to shreds. It had not been a strange new form of poison, but a lure for the noble's pet.

“Kill them all!” Prosper shouted to his men, the anger in his voice rippling across the open space easily. His chevaliers locked blades with the Qunari near instantly, but their larger number left many free to attack Hawke's group.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Hawke grunted as she withdrew her blade, barely in time to block the Orlesian soldier's own weapon. Carver and Isabela fell in beside her, fighting off the charging chevaliers as Sebastian climbed up a low wall to better rain down his arrows. Despite not being entirely certain what was happening or why, Ebrisa knew she had to do her best to support her comrades. Whatever the political ramifications would be for being involved in... whatever this was, she could not stand by while the others were under attack.

She knelt down behind the defensive line, clasping her hands and zeroing in her focus until she could feel the threads of her Fade connection go taut. Ebrisa called out to Sympathy, hoping the spirit would be near enough to answer her plea. _Mother_ , the spirit that seemed to always be at her side, always eager to help, was just not strong enough to assist in a battle this chaotic and would require direction. It could be done, but focusing on only healing meant Ebrisa could not erect barriers or cast other helpful spells to increase the party's battle aptitude.

There was an echoing response in her mind, a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Ebrisa felt the warmth of the aura before she saw the pale blue glow. “Champion, may I-”

“Yes, good,” Hawke called over her shoulder. “Whatever you want, Trevelyan.”

“You said to ask permission before-”

“Permission granted!”

The mage extended her aura to the small group with a sweep of her hand, sensing their wounds and sighing in relief as Sympathy began to mend them almost instantly. With her concentration no longer occupied, Ebrisa set about supporting the other Kirkwall residents by other means. Isabela and Sebastian benefited greatly by the Haste enhancement, becoming near blurs of daggers and arrows, but the Hawkes could only move so fast with their massive swords.

Leopold did not sit idly by as the chevaliers and mabari war hounds attacked the duke's enemies, rushing through the fighting to rake his claws on exposed flanks and knocking Qunari flat on their backs with a whip of his tail. When the opponents before Hawke's group dwindled to nothing, the wyvern spat venom across the field, forcing them to separate in order to dodge. Hawke came up from her roll with a shout, charging at Prosper now that there was nothing between her and him.

Prosper leveled his launcher straight ahead, but Hawke was coming in too fast to keep her footing and still dodge. “Do give my condolences to the Gallows, Champion.” The lure whizzed over Hawke's shoulder, sailing across the field until it smacked Ebrisa square in the chest. “I am afraid their healer mage will not be returning.”

The lure expanded on contact, quickly consuming the mage's upper torso despite her frantic attempts to wipe it away. It bore the consistency of jam or meringue, coating Ebrisa's fingers with a smell that was nowhere near as pleasant. Leopold released a screech, picking up the scent on the air, and abandoned his current opponent to charge his new target while she was still distracted by the green substance. Ebrisa looked up, terrified, just as the wyvern was within striking distance. The creature came to a screeching halt, kicking up dirt as he inspected his intended victim with questioning sniffs and tilts of his head.

Ebrisa was so fixated on the giant lizard before her, so focused on the maw less than a foot from her face, that she failed to notice the approaching chevalier or his raised sword. She heard the deep growl churning in the wyvern's throat and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to brace for the strike she couldn't avoid. The snap of teeth echoed in her ears, but she felt no pain, no pressure, and slowly eased her eyes back open to see what had actually happened.

Leopold pressed the Orlesian soldier to the ground with a clawed foot, holding the man still, and twisted his head to the side, tearing the chevalier nearly completely in half. The wyvern dropped the victim, then let out a dizzying screech and encircled the mage protectively. Ebrisa wobbled, effected by the creature's roar, and more confused by his sudden change in loyalties than the duke's men Leopold had turned on.

The Qunari and chevaliers wore down each others numbers to the point that Hawke's group could turn almost all of their attention on Duke Prosper himself. The noble fired a small spread shot of explosives at the ground, forcing the others back and giving him a bit of space. “Leopold, to me!” He shouted over the fighting, intending to ride his wyvern and rain down venom and explosives on the troublesome guests.

When the creature did not come, he quickly scanned the field until he found his trained battle mount defending the mage it was supposed to have killed some time ago. Prosper snarled in frustration, firing a round at the wyvern as though he were cracking a whip at the disobedient animal. Leopold turned sharply to the man, then looked back to the mage. The wyvern bounded across the ruin flooring towards the noble, but did not slow down.

Leopold snatched Prosper up in his jaws, biting into the wyvern hide armor and finding only a little resistance from the metal cuirass beneath. Hawke's group were surprised by the attack, but none were more shocked by the betrayal than Prosper himself. After a moment of stunned paralysis, the Orlesian managed to retrieve a hunting knife from his belt and stabbed blindly as he was thrashed about. The ornate blade found purchase in Leopold's eye and the wyvern dropped its prey with one last snap of his head, sending the noble rolling across the ruins and stopping just short of the broken edge.

The wyvern shook his head, trying to claw at the knife lodged in his left eye and making rumbling noises. Hawke raised her sword, still a little baffled by the turn of events, and held it out threatening to the wounded lizard. “I've heard _don't poke the bear_ , but I guess that goes double for wyverns.”

“No, Champion, don't hurt him!” Ebrisa called out as she scrambled over the scattered tiles and clumps of weeds. She brushed past Hawke to inspect the damage, finding the knife had left several grooves in the metal headpiece and gashes in the scaly skin before digging into the tender eyeball. The mage hissed in sympathetic pain, gingerly moving a hand towards the protruding jeweled handle. “I'm so sorry...” Leopold released a low, gurgling noise and dipped his head.

“Ungrateful, useless, imbecile...” Prosper groaned as he picked himself up, forcing himself on steady legs by sheer will. “After all the years spent training you, feeding you...” He leveled his weapon at Leopold, firing the spread of small explosives into the group and managing to hit both the wyvern and the mage who beguiled it. Ebrisa cried out at the concentrated blast, gripping her arm where it struck and barely registering the movement beside her.

Leopold charged across the ruins, roaring at his master as the man desperately tried to reload in hopes of getting off another shot. The wyvern lowered his head and plowed into the noble, knocking Prosper off the ledge and down the cliff face, following only a little ways behind.

“No!” Ebrisa reached out with both hands, the singular thought of not letting the wyvern fall circulating over and over in her mind. She felt a tug on her arms, as though she were holding something heavy, and was shocked to find Leopold's tail still visible over the ledge, though it swayed frantically as the creature scrambled to find purchase on the rocks and regain balance. Wyverns had wings, but could not truly fly as their more notorious cousins did, instead relying on climbing to high perches and gliding. Ebrisa had noticed the sheer drop of the cliff when they first saw the ruins in the distance and didn't know if Leopold could gain any sort of helpful lift from that angle. She had also noticed it was a very, very long cliff.

With a determined and unladylike grunt, she pulled back on the invisible with her inadequate telekinetic skill. Prosper's attack sent a searing pain up her arm as she strained against the creature's weight and the increasingly insistent gravity. She tried, oh, how she put everything she had into that spell she barely knew, but her lack of experience proved too damning and the wyvern slipped from her extended grasp. When the magic broke, she fell flat on her back, as though a rope she'd been tugging on suddenly snapped, and she lay there staring up at the cheery blue sky.

Their lord dead, the chevaliers hesitated in engaging the Champion again, and, to be honest, the feeling was mutual. “Did you see that?” Hawke called out loudly, locking eyes with an Orlesian soldier. “Duke Prosper was just out here doing a simple training exercise with his pet wyvern and the damn thing went berserk! Chomped him up and rammed him off the cliff! What a terrible accident!”

The soldiers looked at each other, waiting for one of them to make a decision on what to do. The air over the ruins grew tense, some men tightening their grips on their swords and others shuffling around uneasily. Finally, one of them spoke. “Blessed Andraste, what a completely unforeseen turn of events.”

“Wasn't it just?” Isabela added, lowering her daggers but keeping them in hand.

“You should go report this at once.” Sebastian slowly released the tension on his bowstring, leaving the arrow notched. “I'm certain Lord Cyril will have many affairs to get in order now.”

“Indeed he will,” another chevalier said, signaling those around him to begin moving back.

“Off to it then.” Carver let the tip of his blade hover over the ground, his stance anything but relaxed.

“And do give the new duke our thanks. It was a lovely party.” Hawke smirked. “Even though we had to leave it early. Last night.”

“Yes, I do recall seeing all of you depart... last night,” the first soldier called from the edge of the path. “Maker guide your steps, Champion of Kirkwall.”

 


	25. Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going up a little late today because I am working an anime convention this weekend, but its nice and long with some emotions and stuff to compensate.

Hawke's quick thinking had both established alibis for the group and provided a perfectly legitimate cause for Duke Prosper's death that would keep curious eyes away. Unfortunately, by proclaiming they had all left the night prior, it was impossible for Ebrisa to return to Chateau Haine and change out of the completely filthy, battle damaged robes. They had their equipment and couldn't risk anyone sneaking back to the mountain home for something as trivial as clothing, so the mage was forced to try and rinse off in a cold mountain creek.   
The larger chunks of the green substance washed away, but the stain and stench remained. Ebrisa wasn't entirely certain if the lure was specifically formulated for Leopold or if it would attract all manner of wyverns for miles around and spent a great deal of the journey through the mountains both fearful of drawing wild creatures to the party and lamenting her inability to save the captive one. Isabela took it upon herself to keep the mage's mind occupied with other things, asking inappropriate and probing questions that made half the group blush from time to time.

After Isabela insisted that they stop by the _Blooming Rose_ as soon as they get back to Kirkwall and offering to pay for whatever sort of service the mage wanted, male or female, Ebrisa dared to ask a question she knew she shouldn't have.

“With a woman? How would that – what would – how does -?” Ebrisa understood the basic mechanics of sex, her family did breed horses as a side hobby to their political responsibilities, after all, but as far as she knew it had to be a male and a female.

A devious smile spread across the Rivaini's face. “You see, puppy love, men are only good for one thing. Women are good for six.”

Ebrisa's reddened face scrunched up in further confusion. “Six? Which six?” Hawke, her own face burning at this point, loudly put a stop to the conversation.

When they did finally make it to Kirkwall, Carver made certain to steer his charge away from the pirate and sidestep Hightown altogether, calling out a hurried goodbye over his shoulder as they broke away from the others. He was, of course, grateful that Isabela had kept the mage from sinking into gloom over how the battle ended, but he just wished it could have been done in a way that wasn't so uncomfortable.

Ebrisa was eager to bathe and change into fresh, clean robes, but Carver insisted his instructions were very clear and the moment they stepped onto the Gallows' docks he lead them straight to Meredith's office. They passed the usual sentries, a few offering the returned templar a short welcome, but what grabbed Ebrisa's attention where the two honor guards standing to the side of the Templar Hall. The armored men seemed so out of place, yet also oddly familiar. She couldn't put her finger on it exactly, but neither had she the time to dwell on it.

Carver knocked on his commander's office door, waiting until the woman inside invited the interruption before entering. “Knight-Commander, you said to inform you right away when we returned.”

Meredith looked up from her desk, the usually neat surface covered in ledgers and files with Cullen standing to the side holding further documents that could not find a home on the polished wood. “And so you have, Ser Carver. I expect a full report by the end of the day.”

“Full report,” Carver mumbled uneasily before catching himself. “Ah, yes! Yes, of course, Knight-Commander.” He saluted quickly and retreated the single step he'd taken into the room, smacking into Ebrisa's shoulder as he left. “Sorry, Trevelyan.”

Ebrisa barely registered Carver's bump or his words, focusing instead on the figure standing opposite Meredith that perked up at the templar's apology. The man was older, but still in good shape and bore the gilded armor of his station with the posture of one who spent half a life putting a more sturdy set to use. His graying red hair was flecked with white strands along the temple, cut short and styled with a methodical practicality that spoke of decades of sternness. There were permanent creases in his brow and fine lines around his dull green eyes – eyes that narrowed at the gawking mage curiously.

“Father...” It wasn't a question. There was no doubt in Ebrisa's mind that the man who should have been clear on the other side of the Free Marches was currently standing only a couple of yards away. The other occupants of the room seemed surprised by the word, Cullen and Meredith turning to the target of it.

“I had assumed some sort of relation, Bann Trevelyan,” Meredith slowly admitted. “I had thought a niece or distant cousin.”

Ebrisa gasped, suddenly aware of her staring and the mannerisms she had thrown out the window. “Oh, I,” she mumbled quietly, face flushing from embarrassment as she fumbled to correct her posture. After taking a calming breath, she curtseyed and lowered her head respectfully. “Greetings, my lord Father. Please forgive my earlier lapse in decorum, but I had not expected to see you here.” She straightened and folded her hands over her skirt, trying to not be overly concerned by her father's silence. Knowing full well how much a mess she looked from the entire ordeal at Chateau Haine, she began to apologize once again. “I've only just returned from outside the city and the road was not particularly kind to me.”

Her face began to heat under his scrutinizing gaze, the air in the room growing thick with the quiet. Just as the mage was about to say something else, to try and make amends for some other offense she had surely caused, the man finally spoke.

“Ebrisa?”

The relief was instantaneous and the mage released a half giggle before she caught herself and brought the back of her hand to her mouth to keep further giddiness from escaping. There were so many things she wanted to tell her father, so many questions to ask, and she didn't know where to begin.

“Ebrisa,” Bann Randyll Trevelyan said again, a bit firmer. “I am here under order from the Teryn.”

“Oh,” Ebrisa nearly whispered, having great difficulty hiding her disappointment. It made perfect sense that her father had been sent on some sort of political mission, especially with how nervous the empty viscount seat made the other city-states. He had no way of knowing she was in Kirkwall and, if she had taken even a little bit longer returning, he likely never would have.

“I could, perhaps, call on you later once I finish with the knight-commander,” Randyll said with the hint of a question, looking to Meredith for her consent. Ebrisa shot her eyes to the woman as well, pleading silently for permission.

Meredith, for all her armor and battle experience, was powerless to refuse. “That should give you some time to freshen up, Trevelyan. From the looks of things, you better get started soon.”

Ebrisa gave her thanks and excused herself, waiting for both Meredith and Randyll to acknowledge her before withdrawing and hurrying back to her room for supplies. She bathed thoroughly, paying special attention to her hair where the lure's smell had been absorbed into nearly every strand. When she had rinsed off for the final time, the already small bar of soap was all but gone and she left the sliver at the supply station instead of taking it with her. Ebrisa changed into her best robes and wove her still damp hair into a bun, circling a braid around the outside and tying it all in place with a series of cotton cording.

The mage made one final glance around the room, looking for anything else she could use to make her appearance more acceptable and stilled on her workbench. With a small smile, she grabbed a jar from the corner and made her way back towards the Templar Hall.

 

Cullen tapped a finger on his folded arms as he waited in the entry yard, the small motion being the only outward sign of his growing impatience. Bann Trevelyan and Meredith had finished up some time ago and the noble opted to return to the docks and oversee the loading of his ship while he waited for his daughter. _Daughter_. Cullen chastised himself for the third time for not making the connection on his own earlier, given all Ebrisa had told him about herself. She had not named Ostwick or her father's title, but still, he should have seen the resemblance.

“Ser Keran said to meet you out here,” Ebrisa spoke up once she was close enough. “Father did not wish to stay?”

“He is returning to Ostwick after your visit,” Cullen explained, turning to the mage. “You were-” The rest of his words caught in his throat, the thought escaping him as he looked the woman over. “You...”

“What?” Ebrisa looked down at herself, smoothing out the corset and adjusting the heavy belt nervously. “Is it strange? This is the best set I have, so I thought...” She glanced back up at Cullen, panic slipping into her voice. “Sho-should I go change?”

“No, you-”- _look lovely._ Cullen was barely able to bite his tongue in time to keep the rest from slipping out and took a moment to collect himself. Ebrisa had only been gone a week and, though they had not been interacting much, not catching a glimpse of her every day had rattled Cullen more than he could admit – even to himself. He was uncertain the exact reason – not seeing her for so long, the glow of her freshly washed skin, the silhouette her robes and piled hair cut, the underlining smile she had dawned since first laying eyes on her father – but at least one of those things made the woman more beautiful than he had even noticed before.

Cullen cleared his throat and made a point of looking straight ahead to the docks. “You were taking so long that Bann Trevelyan decided to wait across the harbor for us.”

“Us?” Ebrisa repeated back, following the templar as he began heading for the steps.

“Yes, well, your father wanted to spend time with you outside the Gallows and that requires an escort,” Cullen explained, keeping his voice low as they passed under the portcullis. “He was familiar with me through the course of his inspection and, apparently, rather impressed with my service record...” He felt his cheeks heat just a little at the idea of Ebrisa's father approving of him.

The mage at his side let out a quiet giggle. “You _are_ rather impressive, Knight-Captain.”

“Oh...” he mumbled. “Um, thank you...” Cullen helped Ebrisa onto the small vessel, the sudden closeness affording him a waft of her soap. “You smell nice.” He turned his head away and cursed his inability to bite his tongue that time. “I meant that its different.” Another silent curse. “Not that you usually- uh...” Cullen decided to focus on crossing the harbor and abandoned trying to dig his way out of the hole he found himself in.

“My soap, yes,” Ebrisa squeaked, clearly feeling as awkward as Cullen was. “It seemed rather frivolous to tie up the crafting room to make essential oils, so I infused some olive oil with dried flowers instead and made soap from that.”

“I see.” Cullen clung to the lifeline he'd been tossed. “You did a good job.”

“Thank you...”

They spent the rest of the crossing in silence, though it was far less awkward then it had been.

 

Bann Trevelyan was not difficult to find at the docks, his ship being the only one bearing the crest of Ostwick. When Cullen and Ebrisa approached him, he turned with the heavy air a man of his position required, but near instantly broke into a smile as he locked eyes with his daughter. He took gentle hold of her chin and tilted her head from side to side, memorizing the aged features. “The past six years have been very gracious to you, child.” Randyll released her and took a step back to further inspect her growth. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly in curiosity as they fell over her robes.

“Will you be departing soon?” Ebrisa drew her gaze over the loaded ship, watching the deck hands making final preparations. “If I had known time was so short, I wouldn't have been so concerned with looking my best for you.”

Randyll shook his head. “They will leave when I say, and not a moment before.” He nudged her chin once again. “You look beautiful, child. Your efforts were put to good use.”

Ebrisa blushed faintly, ducking her head to hide her smile. “Was there a particular place you wished to go, Father? I'm afraid I do not know many places in Kirkwall.”

“Yes, about that.” Randyll raised one side of his mouth ever so slightly. “We have missed far too many of our monthly trips to the beach and your knight-captain says he knows a sandy spot not too far up the Wounded Coast.”

Her face lit up brighter than Cullen had ever seen and she looked between the two men excitedly. “Can we really?”

The bann chuckled and motioned forward. “If you would be so good as to lead us, Ser Cullen.” After the templar nodded and headed down the dock, Randyll extended his elbow to his daughter. She nestled her hands around his arm eagerly, working hard to keep her giggling at bay.

They walked between Cullen and a pair of house guards, Ebrisa bubbling out questions about her mother and siblings. When she gasped at hearing Emery had joined the templars, despite his squeamish nature around blood, Randyll chuckled. “That may be so, but he would certainly be more out of place in a Chantry. He still lacks your reverence.” He patted her hand, frowning at the feel of a ring on her left hand and lifted it to further inspect the jewelry. “Ebrisa, what is this?”

“My signet ring,” she timidly explained. “First Enchanter Orsino gave it to me after I passed my Harrowing last year.”

The bann's smile dropped ever so slightly. “Passed your Harrowing,” he said in an even voice. “So you are truly a mage.”

“Yes, Father,” Ebrisa confirmed with a nod. “It was a difficult transition from apprentice, but now I can do my own research and study beyond the normal curriculum. Senior Enchanter Bernice has been very gracious with her time and shown me several techniques we never covered in class. Oh!” She broke from her father's hold and pulled a small jar from the pouch on her belt. “I made this salve for burns. It's actually the first recipe I developed on my own...” She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “I... I put a lot of hard work into it. I want you to have it, Father.”

Randyll hesitated, staring at the jar with the blank expression he normally reserved for uncomfortable political discussions. With a barely audible exhale of breath, he took the ceramic container and held it as though it were something precious. “Thank you.”

When they arrived at the small beach, the house guards made a sweep of the area to ensure it was free of bandits and other such nuisances. “I can't believe Federyc is married and has a child. Not that I didn't think he could be well matched, it's just difficult to remember everyone's lives continued after I went away.” Ebrisa released a soft giggle, bringing her fingers to her mouth. “I have a nephew...”

Cullen couldn't help but notice the strange mixture of joy and sadness in the mage. She had been absolutely ecstatic the entire journey along the coast, taking in every bit of information about the family and home she'd left behind and filing it away in her heart. It reminded Cullen about the way he feels each time Mia sends him a letter. He should really write her more often...

“All secure, my lord,” one of the guards reported with a salute.

Randyll nodded. “Stay with Ser Cullen. I require a private moment with my daughter.”

“Of course.” The three soldiers remained at the trail head, staying alert should the area gain any more visitors.

The Trevelyans moved past the broken walls and ruined arches, coming to a stop at the small beach where the waves gently lapped at the coast. Ebrisa took a step towards the foaming water, then retreated back to her father's side. He chuckled at her restraint before inclining his head towards the beach. “What would be the point of taking you out here if you couldn't feel the sand between your toes and the waves around your ankles?”

Ebrisa bit her lip to hold back yet another giggle and sat on a worn half-wall to remove her shoes, glad to be in simple slippers instead of highly laced boots. No one could ever remain graceful when tugging at a boot. She gathered up her robes, lifting the fabric to mid-calf and padding through the shifting grains until the cold water rushed over her feet. She let out a childish squeal before she could stop herself and received a broken chuckle instead of the reprimand she expected from her father.

Randyll was mostly silent as he watched his little girl that was no longer that. He had wanted so much for her, had such hopes for her future. The way she came into the world, came into his life, he knew she was meant for something special. Seeing her now, smiling so easily... it broke his heart for what he had to do.

“Ebrisa.”

She looked up, the sun reflecting off the water in little patches across her legs. “Yes, Father?”

He took a quiet breath and adopted his usual stoic expression. “We have something to discuss.”

 

Bann Trevelyan returned alone, causing Cullen to look past the man curiously. “Let us be on our way,” he told his men. “We are already behind schedule.” The house guards saluted and headed for the path without question. Randyll pauseded, looking down at the small jar in his hands and running his thumbs over the lid's edge.

He turned his head ever so slightly to address the still unmoving templar staring down the beach. “Take good care of her.”

Cullen started and returned his attention to the man standing before him. He felt as though he should ask something, but at the same time knew it wasn't his place to question. Adopting a similarly serious expression, he gave a determined reply. “On my honor.”

Randyll smiled just the slightest bit, a hint of sadness flickering in his green eyes. “Good man.” With no further words or explanation, Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick walked away.

Silence slowly settled over the small section of the coast, broken only by the rhythmic push and pull of the water. Ebrisa made no move to rejoin Cullen, making the templar come to her instead. She had dropped her grip on her robes some time ago, the fine fabrics soaking up salt water and dragging around her legs in the tide. She had her back to him, staring out over the Waking Sea at the wrecked ships and jagged rock outcroppings that gave the Wounded Coast its name, but even from behind he could tell something was wrong.

“Trevelyan?” Cullen called out cautiously, forcing the mage out of whatever mental retreat she'd gone to.

Ebrisa brought her hands to her face, wiping frantically with the edge of her sleeve. She took a steadying breath, then turned around with a smile and reddened eyes. “Well, that was nice. It was good to catch up.” She walked briskly through the sand and right past Cullen. “We should head back.” A moment later she turned around and passed the templar again. “Ah, I forgot my shoes.” She sat down on the stone wall and brushed sand from her feet before picking up a slipper with a trembling hand.

“Trevelyan,” Cullen tried again, following the mage. “Are you alright?”

“I- I'm fine.” She laughed weakly as her hand struggled to get the slipper in place. “My shoes just... don't seem to fit anymore...” Her smile wavered as the tears she was fighting began to break free. “I... I don't fit anymore...” Ebrisa turned away in a vain attempt to keep her crying a secret, but couldn't stop her entire body from shaking.

She had been so happy earlier, so excited, that seeing Ebrisa so completely crushed now was too difficult to witness and Cullen averted his eyes. He had to do something, say something, but what? He'd been able to help before because he understood what happened, but this? Where could he even start?

Cullen sat down beside her as quietly as he could, which was never much when metal scraped against rock. “What do you mean by that?” He waited patiently for her breathing to calm enough to speak.

“He didn't know,” Ebrisa began softly, seemingly confused by her own words. “Mother kept my magic a secret. She... she told everyone I joined a cloister. She hid me...” As she spoke, oddities in her pre-Circle life began to make sense. Being sequestered off during family events, her mother seeing to all her lessons personally while her siblings had tutors, going off the estate less and less... Maker, how did she not notice before?

“I always knew I couldn't go back to my old life, but I hoped...” She took a shaky inhale to calm the emotion threatening to crack her voice. “Mages can't hold lands or titles, can't marry or have children... they can't build a new family. I know that. I just _hoped_ my family would still... be my family. Would still... _want_ to be...” Her voice dropped as she stared at the grains of sand on her fingers, slowly brushing them away like she was dusting off her old life.

“Father said I can continue to use the name, but my ties to the noble branch are severed. Whatever reason Mother had for lying to everyone, the lie is accepted as truth now and to back out of it would darken the Trevelyan name far more than my magic ever could.” Ebrisa rested her cleaned hands in her lap, idly twisting her signet ring. “I'm no longer the daughter of Bann Randyll Trevelyan. I don't... I'm not sure who I am anymore.”

Cullen had done his best to remain quiet and allow Ebrisa to explain what was going on. He struggled to stare straight ahead and allow her to cry without feeling self-conscience. He couldn't continue to do either. Stealing a sidelong glance at the devastated mage before returning his gaze at a point in the distance, Cullen broke his silence.

“That's ridiculous. You're Ebrisa.”

She turned to him sharply, not expecting her concerns to be so easily brushed aside. Not by him. “But I-”

“Are you any different than you were an hour ago?” Cullen continued, acting as though he hadn't heard her protest. “Noble, not noble. Mage, not mage. _What_ you are doesn't matter.” He shifted on the stone, finally looking at the woman fully once again. “That doesn't define _who_ you are.” Cullen lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb. “You're Ebrisa... and there's nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Her eyes widened just a bit, lips parting in surprise as Cullen offered her a timid, encouraging smile. She dropped her gaze almost instantly, placing her hand over his and holding it in place as a smile of her own began to peek out. “I guess not...”

He chuckled softly, that small smile twisting into a full on smirk. “That's what I thought.”

The longer the silence stretched between them, the hotter Ebrisa's face grew until Cullen could feel the heat through the leather of his gauntlets. He withdrew his hand, pulling it from her grasp and bringing it to his own face to cough into. While the awkward quiet was preferable to the mage crying, it was still very uncomfortable and the pair shifted repeatedly while trying to figure out how to proceed.

“I...” Ebrisa cleared her throat of its lingering emotion and tried again. “I suppose I should thank you.” She kicked her foot slightly, drawing a line in the sand with her toe. “You saw me, even when I couldn't, so... thank you.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, trying to will his pulse into a steady pace. “It was nothing.”

“No, it was very much something, Knight-Captain,” she insisted. “Wo-would it be possible for you to remind me? Could you, maybe, call me _Ebrisa_ from now on?”

Cullen hesitated for what felt like the tenth time that day. There were many mages and templars he addressed by first name and, while he did so at their preference, it didn't really hold any significant meaning to him personally. That was the problem. Calling the woman beside him by her family name was one of the last things he could do to act professional around her. If he stopped doing that, then how quickly would other aspects of his resolve come undone?

“It... it was too much, wasn't it?” Ebrisa rubbed at her forehead and quietly admonished herself. “I apologize, Knight-Captain. I shouldn't have asked...”

“No, no. That's perfectly alright,” Cullen mumbled, rubbing his neck. “We should return to the Circle.”

The mage frowned briefly, catching her disappointment a moment too late and bending to pick up her shoes. “Of course.”

“But we could wait a little bit longer, so your robes can dry,” he quickly amended, pausing as he made a decision he hoped wouldn't come back to bite him. “Ebrisa.”

She snapped upright, mouth slightly agape. Ebrisa overcompensated for her gawking by biting her lip, then relaxed into a warm smile. “I would like that.”

So far, Cullen had no regrets.

 


	26. New Recruit

With how close Aveline and Meredith were working since Dumar's death, it was never a surprise to see the red-head at the Gallows. Sometimes she would send missives or delegate tasks to her men, sometimes further outsourcing to the Champion of Kirkwall, so seeing Hawke lead her companions straight to the Templar Hall set off no warning bells in Cullen's head and he returned his attention back to the entry yard. When she had completed whatever mission she was on, the bold woman moved over to the templar with her hand straight in the air.

“Cullen! How's tricks?”

Not certain how to answer that, he simply nodded. “Champion.”

“Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair soon.” She folded her arms and stood beside him. “Just came to borrow a mage.”

His frown spoke volumes of his displeasure. “This isn't a library for you to borrow from when you need a little more fire power, Champion. And haven't you apostate friends you can call upon?” He drifted his mildly scrutinizing gaze to the Dalish mage gawking at the Tevinter statues. Meredith may have granted Merrill and Anders a sort of clemency, but it still struck Cullen as rather risky for Hawke to bring either of them to the Gallows.

“Oh, don't get your skirt in a twist, Knight-Captain Curly,” Varric chuckled. “We'll bring her back in one piece.”

“ _Her_?”

“Didn't I mention?” Hawke grinned. “We came to borrow a very specific mage. She's got a certain skill we really need for a problem on the Wounded Coast.”

A mage Hawke was already familiar enough with to know their skills? While she did assist with templar matters from time to time, the Champion didn't really interact with the mages very often and should only know a few by name. She couldn't possibly mean...

“Knight-Captain,” Ser Leon called out, trailing a very confused Ebrisa behind him. “Maker willing, this assignment will not take long, but if we should not return by sundown-”

“Well aren't you just a peach,” Hawke muttered. “I swear on my brother's honor that I'll have the both if them back before supper.”

“Traditionally, Hawke, you're supposed to make oaths on your own honor,” Varric pointed out with a chuckle.

“Oh, I'm not about to risk my reputation. I'm sure Carver's pride can handle the ramifications.”

Merrill hurried over to the other mage, linking arms with a tiny giggle. “Come on then, da'len. I heard all about that Orlesian party and can't wait to see you in action.”

Leon shook his head, resigned to the babysitting assignment he'd been given just because he happened to be on sentry duty nearest the commander's office that day. “As I was saying, if we don't return by sundown, assume the worst. I will not let Trevelyan escape while I yet draw breath.”

“I _know_ how to respond to missed deadlines,” Cullen replied curtly. “Maker guide your steps, _Ser_ Leon.” The older knight had been acting increasingly disrespectful towards Cullen recently. He'd prefer to not report the behavior, as it had not quite become insubordination just yet, but the man's previously masked disdain was not going unnoticed. It was known that many knights with longer careers thought Cullen had been promoted too quickly, that he hadn't the experience needed for the position when he first became knight-captain. Most changed their minds over the years, but Leon remained unconvinced.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The trek along the coast was spent with Merrill talking circles around Ebrisa while Varric and Hawke bet which of them could get Leon to laugh first. It made for a very noisy, and unfruitful, journey. When they reached a turn in the path, Hawke signaled for the others to quiet and lead them into a previously scouted cave. She stopped before the mouth of a cavern and nodded at Ebrisa.

“Okay, Trevelyan, do your thing.”

“My thing?” The blonde repeated, wishing one of them had filled her in on the mission instead of talking about how useful twine was when moving into a new home and the latest batch of welcome muggings in the alienage. She thought on what she could possibly be capable of that Merrill wasn't and calmly activated her healing aura, Sympathy reaching across the group.

“Oh, well,” Hawke mumbled, “that's not really what I had in mind.” Before Ebrisa could ask what _had_ been expected of her, a screech bounced and echoed off the rough-hewn walls, distorting its nature and location. “Looks like he caught our scent.”

“I do not know what you were expecting this mage to accomplish, but Knight-Commander Meredith did not approve her for offensive magic.” Leon withdrew his sword and slipped on his shield. “What manner of beast is this?”

“Wyvern,” Varric answered, keeping his own weapon safely on his back. “But I wouldn't-”

“I am well aware of their venom, dwarf,” Leon cut in. “That is what the shield is for.” Before anyone could stop him, the templar rushed into the cavern and charged at the creature. He blocked the first spit of venom, the substance sliding harmlessly down his shield as he raised his sword and slashed down at the wyvern's head. The blade glanced off the black scales, leaving a line of bright silver from the hit. “What in the Void?”

The wyvern growled menacingly, staring down the templar with its good eye. It pivoted suddenly and whipped the man with its tail, sending Leon through the air a good distance before he hit and rolled on the cave floor. He groaned in pain, fighting the dizziness as he tried to climb back to his feet. Ebrisa's magic kicked in, easing his discomfort even as he saw the mage run across the cavern. A quick glance to the entrance confirmed Hawke and her friends had not moved and Leon grunted in irritation. If the Champion wanted to have someone else fight the beast, then they should have asked for a proper templar squad instead of a single mage... that he was responsible for. “Flames.”

Leon pulled himself up, but was too far from the mage or the monster to keep the idiotic woman from getting mauled, if not killed outright. He would be reprimanded, or exiled from the Order all together, all because the Champion of Kirkwall decided to play fast and loose with Meredith's pet mage. If there was one bit of good that could come from all this, at least the knight-captain's distraction would be gone.

Ebrisa stopped just short of the wyvern, looking over the riding harness and scratched helm in disbelief. “Leopold?” The wyvern dipped his head, nudging the woman with his snout. She raised her hands, gently tracing the scarring around his now milky left eye. “I'm so sorry. This was my fault.” Leopold pulled away, as though embarrassed by his half-blindness.

“Ho. Ly. Shit!” Varric laughed at Hawke's side, the group now standing just a bit further in the cavern. “I was so sure you guys were pulling my leg. I mean, this is the kind of crazy shit _I'd_ come up with!”

“He doesn't look so scary now,” Merrill chirped. “Well, okay, still scary, but also sort of sweet.”

The templar stared, dumbfounded, as Ebrisa began unbuckling the straps around the wyvern. “What in the Maker's name is she doing?”

Hawke gave the man a big, toothy grin. “ _Her thing._ ”

With the irritating saddle off for the last time, Ebrisa moved back to Leopold's head and began work on the helm. “I suppose you followed the scent of that lure all the way here. You're free now. You didn't have to follow me home.” The metal finally off, Ebrisa was able to see the filed down stub of what should have been a horned fin.

Duke Prosper had mutilated Leopold, disfiguring the creature to better suit his selfish esthetic. Damaged, blinded, and raised in captivity, Leopold would not have lasted long against his wild, territorial kind. After killing his former master, the trained wyvern would likely be slain on sight if he tried to return to Chateau Haine. Maybe he _did_ have to follow Ebrisa home.

She stroked a hand over the top of his head between the eyes – a place she remembered horses liking quite a bit – and settled the other just under his chin, feeling the split on the lower jaw. “I'm glad you're okay, Leopold.” He released a quiet rumbling, the vibration making Ebrisa's fingers tingle. Yes, she decided, it was definitely a purr.

“She has the beast subdued,” Leon pointed out, using his sword for emphasis. “We should strike now while its defenses are low.”

“Oh, we didn't come here to kill the thing,” Hawke said with smirk.

“Then what _was_ your goal?”

Her smirk only grew.

~~~~~~~~~  
As promised, the group returned to the Gallows well before the sun even began to dip below the horizon. Ser Leon marched straight to Meredith's office to report in, somehow more irritated than he was before leaving.

“He needs a stiff drink,” Varric muttered. “Or a kick in the ass.”

“Frankly, I couldn't care less which, so long as it happens soon. I prefer to only deal with one templar grump a day.” Hawke gestured to Cullen as they approached.

“The knight-captain isn't a grump,” Ebrisa quietly defended, frowning at the back of the Champion's head.

“Maybe you're just used to it, but that man is definitely a grump.” The dwarf chuckled as her frown morphed into a slight pout.

Cullen did his best to pretend he hadn't heard them, only turning to acknowledge the group when they were right in front of him. “I take it your mission was successful?”

“Yup, part one complete. Now we can start working on part two.” Hawke reached behind her and pulled Ebrisa forward, tossing her lightly towards the templar. “We'll come back for your special lady mage after she figures out something to keep the wyvern calm around others.”

He stiffened, feeling his skin heat just the faintest bit. “She's not-” Not what? A lady? Special? _His_? A beat of silence followed his abrupt cut off, his mind processing the latter part of the comment. “Did you say _wyvern_?”

“I don't know what Junior put in his report,” Varric began, carefully gauging the templar's reactions, “but apparently Sunshine here made a friend at the duke's party. She got all cozy with Leopold right in front of everyone and gathered quite the crowd with her display.”

Cullen glanced down at Ebrisa, waiting for her to deny the dwarf's story as one of his wild exaggerations. When she didn't, he felt the increasingly familiar bitter taste in his mouth. “No, Ser Carver didn't mention that.”

Varric shrugged. “Anyways, she must have charmed Leopold or something, because he followed her all the way here.”

“I didn't charm Leopold, Master Varric,” Ebrisa protested.

“Well you can't deny you left an impression on him.”

Leopold. She was calling him by name alone. The building jealousy began to give way to anger and Cullen struggled to keep a calm outward appearance, especially since they were out in the open. He exhaled through his nose, lips tight as he composed a response. “This is-” None of his business? Unexpected? Completely expected? ...Infuriating? “- very interesting, but what does it have to do with wyverns?”

Merrill giggled, the sound serving to only irritate the templar further. “Leopold is the wyvern, of course.”

“Did I skip that part?” Varric drew out the question, as though baffled by his own omission.

Cullen's jaw went slack, relief rushing through him and visibly wiping the tension from his body. After a moment, he turned a scrutinizing eye to the Circle mage. “And how, exactly, did you cozy up to a wyvern?”

Ebrisa flushed under his gaze, fidgeting nervously. “We-well... Duke Prosper had been mistreating him, so I... climbed into Leopold's cage...”

“You _what_?” Cullen leaned in, as though he had misheard. “And this is Prosper's wyvern? The one that _killed_ him? Are you _insane_?”

The blonde woman bristled slightly, jumping to the wyvern's defense. “That was an accident!”

Hawke paled, frantically trying to signal the mage to be quiet.

“And Leopold only attacked because the duke provoked him by attacking first.” Ebrisa set her hands on her hips in a rare show of defiance. “He was only protecting me.”

Cullen let out a long, slow breath. “I thought you all left the night before Prosper's untimely death.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, shifting her gaze to finally look at the now face-palming Hawke. Ebrisa had never been good at lying, but understood the ramifications that would befall them if it was revealed they had actually been fighting Duke Prosper and Qunari after breaking Hawke and an assassin out of Chateau Haine's dungeon. Her pulse raced as her panic spread, wishing she could take back the last few minuets. This is why she tried to always tell the truth.

Hawke abruptly began laughing, the sound forced and awkward. “Oh, you, uh, silly person. How many times do I have to remind you of what really happened?” She plopped a hand on Cullen's shoulder, drawing his attention away from the mage. “You see, Trevelyan here got drunk at the party, so her memory is a little confused.”

Cullen shifted his focus back to the blonde, taking in her growing flustered expression and reddening face. He knew her answer before he even asked the question. “Is that true?”

“I- I'd never had alcohol before and it would have been rude to decline the wine...” Ebrisa stared down at her hands, studying her nails so she wouldn't have to see the look of disappointment on Cullen's face. “It was only one glass...” Admittedly, it was a dauntingly full glass that Cyril encouraged her to rush through, but just one all the same.

“So you got drunk off your first drink and wandered into a wyvern's cage in the middle of a high society event?”

“Not in that order...” she mumbled. “I was in full control of my mental faculties when I took off Leopold's ill-fitting saddle. Party or not, I couldn't stand to see a mount suffering like that and just... do nothing.” Ebrisa finally raised her eyes as she heard the templar sigh, expecting to see disapproval or irritation, but was completely surprised at the tiny, amused curve tugging at Cullen's lips as he shook his head.

“I feel as though I should have expected that,” the templar said with the hint of a chuckle. “You do make it a habit to correct problems others tend to ignore.”

“And she has a knack for taming grumpy beasts others are so eager to write off,” Varric said with a grin, casting a look at Hawke. “With Sunshine's help, were going to build rapport with Leopold and the city guards so they can work together.”

“A guard wyvern!” Merrill cheered excitedly, throwing her arms in the air. “Isn't that just a grand idea? He can keep the coasts clear of bandits and other ne'er-do-wellers!”

Hawke grinned, sharing in the elf's enthusiasm. “What better way to strengthen Kirkwall's image than enlist a giant, venom-spewing lizard into the guard? Originally, Aveline just wanted to kill the thing, but Meredith warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. I think your knight-commander likes having a wyvern on the payroll.”

“It does... have a certain appeal,” Cullen relented. “Assuming, of course, this Leopold won't go rampaging through the city or attack caravans. That's where Ebrisa comes in, I take it?”

Varric shot the Champion another smug look. “Sure is.”

“I should really start looking into that before the library closes,” Ebrisa mused quietly, as though talking to herself. She turned to Hawke and smiled lightly. “I'll send a message once I've found something. If you'll excuse me, Champion.” After getting a thumbs up from the woman, Ebrisa turned to Cullen and nodded in way of goodbye before walking into the fortress.

“We're off then, too,” Hawke lifted a hand, fake saluting to the knight-captain as she started backing away.

Cullen called out a farewell as the group left, watching as the warrior and rogue argued with each other before Hawke reached into her purse and slammed some coins into the dwarf's waiting palm. The exchange had been odd, but Cullen shrugged it off and instead decided to have a nice, long talk with Carver about what _full report_ actually meant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt so bad for Leopold during Mark of the Assassin. He didn't deserve to die with his cruel master, so after going back and forth many times with this and working out several ways this could affect the plot, I decided to keep the wyvern around. Its silly, but I don't care! I wanted to give Ebrisa a cool pet/mount/friend!
> 
> BONUS!  
> I started a tumblr just for posting my storyboarding doodles. Follow the link to see a scene that never happened, but made up my mind about Leopold.  
> https://68.media.tumblr.com/7bba21b6856a839ae313d87ed6603bb4/tumblr_onkk01cjgZ1w9rae8o1_1280.jpg


	27. Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you all to know that I showed great restraint in not posting a chapter yesterday on April Fools. I will, however, post that in the notes right now:
> 
> "And then Cullen and Ebrisa made out and it was awesome the end."
> 
> See? wouldn't you have been upset if you got a notification for a new chapter and it was just that? On the other hand, relationship progress, so...

On the surface, creating a scent for Leopold to associate with allies was a simple task. The problem was any combination of dried herbs or essential oils could be replicated by crime rings and thus defeat the purpose of the scent sachets all together. It was clear Leopold could identify Ebrisa, even after weeks apart and washing, but duplicating her personal scent was a strange and arduous task.

The only thing Ebrisa could think of that was uniquely her was her aura, and that thought lead her to some of the Tranquil researchers. It was difficult to figure out, but with the help of Maddox, Ebrisa imbued several small runes with her aura, imparting a tiny piece of herself into each. After that, it was a simple matter of slipping the enchanted stones in secure bags of lavender, elfroot, and other seemingly random herbs. The sachets were sealed with a ward and turned over to Aveline after a demonstration proved their effectiveness in calming the wyvern.

Despite the added protection, Leopold still refused to allow anyone save the mage herself to get too close without becoming agitated. This ended up working for the best, however, as now access to the single source of wyvern venom in all of Kirkwall was restricted to one person. Ebrisa was sent to the cave Leopold decided to claim as home every week to gather some of the venom for use in potion -making and alchemy. It was pointed out several times that the venom would be quite handy from an offensive standpoint, but Ebrisa wouldn't allow it. In truth, she had very little say over what was and wasn't done with the venom, but Orsino and Meredith both decided to honor Ebrisa's wishes to not do harm. For the time being, at least.

As was the case with any naturally hostile creature, accidents did happen. The Circle ordered drakevein, winterberry, and Andraste's mantle to make the topical antidote for the venom, but the herbs would not always be in season. While Bernice tried to arrange a section of the herb garden to be replanted with the needed seeds, Ebrisa took it upon herself to see what components could be substituted with readily available plants. She broke down each herb to see what it offered to the remedy, finding drakevein reduced inflammation and winterberry countered the acidic nature of the venom itself. Andraste's mantle, as a variation of elfroot, acted much the same as the more common variety.

With this in mind, and after much trial and error, she developed a recipe that – while weaker than the known antidote – did a fair job and reduced the death sentence to a few days of chills and sweating instead. Solivitus and Bernice were greatly impressed by both her discovery and initiative, having several long discussions with Orsino about her before finally calling the mage into the First Enchanter's office.

~~~~~~~~~

Ebrisa held a hand over her mouth, brow creasing in thought as she stared at the board before her. She'd just captured one queen with the other, but now came the task of countering herself again. After a firm forehead rub, she jumped her bishop across the squares. “Another capture,” she announced to the empty library row while setting the matching queen on the table. She grabbed hold of the board, preparing to spin it so she could work the other side once again, when she heard footsteps. Perhaps the row wasn't as empty as she thought.

“I don't mean to interrupt,” Cullen began as he approached, cautiously looking around, “but I understand congratulations are in order, Junior Enchanter Ebrisa.”

She released the chessboard, smiling and blushing as she looked up at the templar. “That sounds rather strange, doesn't it?”

“Not at all, it was only a matter of time before you earned a title.” Cullen shrugged lightly. “Of course, doing so less than a year after your Harrowing? That's rather impressive.”

“Says the man who climbed to knight-captain in a matter of months after transfer,” Ebrisa hummed back.

Cullen shifted his weight, averting his eyes. “Yes, well...” He paused, looking around the area more. “Who are you playing with? Did I scare them off?”

The mage timidly raised a hand. “Just me, I'm afraid. Finding chess partners is rather difficult. I tried teaching Edan and Vemara, but they lack the patience and attention span, respectively.”

Cullen walked closer, standing opposite the woman and studying the board. “I know the feeling. I used to play all the time when I was a recruit, but I don't think any of my subordinates want to risk beating me.”

“Are you saying you aren't very good?” Ebrisa giggled lightly, earning herself a brief glare from the man.

The white rook swept across the board, taking down the bishop and clacking loudly onto the previously occupied square. Cullen turned the captured piece over in his hand. “Are you saying you wish to find out?”

Ebrisa began resetting the board, her smile growing with each click of the wood. Finally, she held out her hand for the missing bishop. “Don't worry, Knight-Captain, I have no reservations about beating you.”

He held back the laugh that wanted to erupt from his chest, focusing on his game face instead. Cullen leaned forward, bypassing Ebrisa's hand, and set the last piece on the board himself. “We'll just have to see about that, now won't we?”

Cullen played cautiously at first, trying to gauge his opponent's skill level and tailor the game to match. He wasn't going to throw the game, but he didn't want to scare off his first chess partner in nearly five years either. Ebrisa's moves were practiced, calculating, and from the lighthearted jabs she was making, her earlier comment about not being afraid of beating Cullen seemed entirely truthful. It ended up being a moot point, as the templar captured nearly three pieces for every two he lost and won out in the end. He'd done his best to make the game seem close, so much in fact that the mage nearly demanded a rematch. It was a little strange, but with only the board between them to focus on, a sort of carefree levity settled on the pair. Cullen muffled laughter into his fist more than once and found that he rather enjoyed this slightly sassy side of Ebrisa that hadn't revealed itself before.

While she stubbornly reset the board for a third chance to defeat the templar, Ebrisa noticed the library staff had changed. “Oh, I hadn't realized it had gotten so late. Forgive me, I must have kept you from something important.”

Cullen cursed silently for losing track of time. He should have finished and filed his reports by now, but if he rushed it could still be done before Meredith locked up for the night. “No, this was... honestly?” He smirked down at the board, tapping a pawn lightly. “Honestly, this was rather... fun.” It wasn't a word he got to use much anymore and he experienced it even less.

“It was,” Ebrisa quietly agreed. “When can we play again?”

He looked up at her sharply, too startled by the question to hide his surprise adequately.

“O-or can we not?” She shifted her gaze to the wall, watching the low burning candle with sudden interest. “I'll be starting my duties with Senior Enchanter Bernice soon and you are a very busy man. I've already stolen a great deal of your time as it is. I shouldn't get greedy...”

That was true, at least partially, but after an almost too long pause, Cullen made a greedy suggestion of his own.

They set up weekly games for Sunday afternoons. Ebrisa spent the morning visiting with Leopold – grooming, petting, and adding a little bit of extra training when she felt there was time after collecting the venom – while Cullen went to service in the Chantry and did other small errands in the city. A templar officer never truly had a _day off,_ but his duties were considerably lighter on Sundays.

They played quietly in the library, out in the open, and made a point of inviting other people to play as well. Sometimes a passing mage or templar would stand around and watch for a bit, but always refused the offer for having the next game. For a month, everything was great. Cullen and Ebrisa would have their usual, short exchanges in passing during the week then have a single game of chess where they could actually talk. Cullen found himself dragging out his moves, staring at the board long after he decided what action to take, just to prolong the ending. Ebrisa, he noticed, had grown slower as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
The delay at the harbor set Cullen back a great deal and he almost considered not changing back into his armor and just going straight to the library in his civilian clothes. Sense got the better of him, since he would have duties directly following the game, and he ultimately suited up. When he stepped out of his quarters, he nearly slammed into Carver who had been waiting outside his door.

“Knight-Captain, if I could have a moment?” Carver said in a low tone, looking around almost nervously.

Cullen groaned inwardly, darting his eyes down the corridor and briefly considered brushing the knight off. Something had the other man concerned, however, and Cullen couldn't very well turn his back on a brother in need. “If it will only take a moment. I have an appointment to get to.”

“That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Carver slowly said, as though the subject was making him very uncomfortable. “You see, people have noticed your weekly game and they've started to talk. It's not really my business, but some of the others are saying you're being a bit too... _familiar_ with Trevelyan.”

“It's just chess,” Cullen muttered, straightening his posture unconsciously to appear more imposing. “I'd play with anyone that asked.”

Carver snorted, unconvinced, but a scowl from the officer had him clearing his throat. “And that may be true, but that's not how some people are taking it. Honestly, given the whispers I've heard, its a miracle no one has filed a complaint yet. The knight-commander has been pretty high-strung lately, political stress, I suppose, so I don't know what she would do. To _either_ of you.” Carver ruffled his hair, as if dislodging the burden from his mind. “But, hey, you've known the knight-commander longer, so if you think there's nothing to be concerned with, that's great. Like I said, it's not really my business.” With an awkward salute, Carver stepped away and left Cullen alone in the corridor.

~~~~~~~~~  
Ebrisa adjusted on the hard, wooden stool yet again, trying to ease some of the discomfort that had built during her wait. For the past several weeks, she had rushed to the library after returning from the coast, taking a bit of time to freshen up so the smell of wyvern wasn't overbearing. To be entirely forthcoming, even though she saw Cullen every day, Ebrisa wanted to make sure she looked her best for their little game. She couldn't explain it exactly, seeing as it was only chess in the middle of the library, but somehow the weekly encounter felt... special, _felt exciting._ She was certain Cullen would laugh if he knew how much she anticipated their match all week, how her heart pounded while she waited for him to arrive, how it skipped a beat when she caught the clank of armored steps approaching the row of books, and how it sank each time those steps kept going.

She turned the page of the book she was only half-reading, not certain if it was about Antivan history or assassination attempts in general, when she heard two templars passing by. From their hushed grumblings, she learned that a very vocal Orlesian merchant had gotten into arguments with several captains, resulting in fist fights and locking down the docks until the guard sorted everything out. A quiet sigh of relief rustled the pages of the book, alerting Ebrisa to the fact that she had sighed at all. An unforeseen event had prevented Cullen from making it by his usual time and, given the fact he still had responsibilities, it was likely he wouldn't be coming at all.

But... maybe he still would.

The mage straightened just a little and shifted the mildly interesting book to her other hand, determined to wait a bit longer.

 

When they passed in the hall that week, neither mentioned the missed game. Circumstances were out of Cullen's control and Ebrisa didn't want to make him feel bad for something that wasn't his fault, so she acted as though she hadn't been so terribly disappointed when Feynriel calmly told her the library was closing and she had to leave. When Sunday came again, she selected a work by Brother Genitivi from a shelf and settled down by the chessboard to read and to wait. Ebrisa's smile faded with the end of each chapter. Her eyes snapped up eagerly with every person who drew near only to slowly lower them back to the page, her stomach dropping each time her gaze did.

Again, nothing was said about Cullen's absence in their daily interaction, but it was considerably harder for Ebrisa to not let it affect her. Another week passed and the mage stood in the library, staring down the row where the chessboard awaited its players. She balled her hands in her robes, squeezing out the feelings that made her want to scream. Taking a very shaky breath, Ebrisa turned around and walked away. The board did the rest of its waiting alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Bernice paced in front of Orsino's desk, the man shaking his head slowly. “Perhaps we acted too hastily, First Enchanter,” the herbalist sighed, rubbing at her temple. “The girl had shown such promise early on, but these last few weeks she has been...” Bernice paused, searching for a word that wouldn't come off as too harsh, “ _slacking_ in her duties. Trevelyan does what I ask of her, of course, but rather slowly. I think we may have placed too much on her young shoulders.”

“Are you suggesting stripping her of rank?” Orsino leaned forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he set his elbows on the desk. “If you truly don't think she can handle the responsibility, then there is no need to make the poor girl struggle further.”

The woman stopped her pacing, turning sharply to the First Enchanter. “Oh, no, I didn't mean we should... well...” She dipped her head, as though considering the point. “She does her work, assists me fairly well, but something has her distracted. Removing her title after only just bestowing it two months ago would rather make us look the fool, wouldn't it? Perhaps just a formal warning? A reprimand that could help her focus once again?”

Orsino nodded, completely agreeing with the far softer approach. “If she does not improve by the end of the week, send her to me. The threat of a blotch in her record should make a good egg like Trevelyan straighten back up.” The woman dipped her head respectfully, excusing herself and leaving the office out the open door. After only a brief moment of solitude, the elf was interrupted yet again.

“First Enchanter,” Cullen greeted stiffly, his expression somewhat troubled. “Knight-Commander Meredith has taken your assessment of Evelina under advisement, but the apostate will remain in lock up for the time being.”

The mage stood up abruptly, his chair screeching loudly against the stone floor. “This is ridiculous. We are supposed to oversee the Gallows together, but every single one of my directions are undermined or ignored outright. Evelina turned herself in! We should not punish her for that.”

Cullen straightened his posture, the earlier unease he displayed completely erased. “Evelina _was_ a Circle mage, but she escaped. It is not as though she was self-trained or a child who knew no better.”

“She fled the Blight,” Orsino reminded. “Kinloch Hold could not hold back the Darkspawn, so she ran away out of fear – like every other Fereldan refugee in Kirkwall.”

The templar clenched his jaw, a brief flicker of anger flashing over his features. “Even if that _were_ the case for her departure, the Blight is over. Do you expect us to believe she spent the last five years in Kirkwall and didn't know there was a Circle here? She preferred to hide in squalor rather than be looked after and protected by the grace of the Chantry. If safety were truly such a concern of hers, then where is the sense in that?” Cullen took a steady breath, struggling to stay in control as he stared down the first enchanter. “Do not tell _me_ what Kinloch Hold could not hold back.”

Orsino quickly averted his eyes, sighing heavily. “Of course, Knight-Captain, I had forgotten you were there for the worst of it.”

_The worst of it._ Orsino almost made the complete fall of an entire Circle sound like a street riot. Cullen shook his head in an attempt to stop the dark thought from taking hold. The details of Kinloch Hold's demise were not widely known, but surely the other first enchanters and knight-commanders of southern Thedas were told. If anything good could ever possibly come out of Fereldan's Circle's fall, it would be to act as a warning.

Meredith knew. She had asked Cullen to explain, in his own words, why he had been transferred back when he first arrived. Originally, he was concerned his bitter anger would hold him back and prevent him from serving the Order, but Meredith had been able to see through his words and gauge his deeds instead. He'd always been grateful to her for taking a chance on him with his first promotion and granting him the authority to put his concerns for the safety of the men into direct practice. Cullen was so certain he would fail in Kirkwall like he did in Fereldan, but to his surprise he excelled. He felt sure of himself again, felt confident, and discovered he was actually rather suited for a leadership role.

In a way, perhaps it was better most people didn't know what happened in his old Circle. Cullen had enough people doubting his ability without adding the notion that he had only been appointed to knight-captain out of pity. No, he _earned_ his rank through hard work, dedication, and skill. After everything he had lost to Circles, this was one thing no one could take from him, but now there was something else he was hesitant to lose as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the useless research! Even though this is a fictional, magical land, I made sure that there were actual real world equivalents to the venom antidote. Hypsizygus ulmarius is a type of mushroom that reduces inflammation when applied topically. Lots of berries contain antioxidants, vitamins C and E (which promote cell regeneration and healing), and have high alkaline levels which combat the acidity. Did BioWare do this research too? Maker, I hope so... I'd feel silly otherwise.


	28. Passing Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the first bit of repercussions for being less formal arrives...

The final lesson came to an uneventful close, the apprentices filing into the corridor as Ebrisa cleaned up. It wasn't a lab day, so her tasks were rather straight forward and simple which was both a relief and a problem. With nothing demanding all of her focus, Ebrisa's mind wandered to sad and lonely places. She must have done or said something during her last chess match with Cullen, offended or annoyed him somehow that the idea of sitting across from her for so long was unbearable. Maker, what did she do? If she knew, she could fix it. Why wouldn't he just tell her?

Ebrisa held back a sigh and began wiping away the diagrams and notations she had drawn on the chalkboard that morning, morphing the precise lines into faded blurs. She clicked her tongue, annoyed at herself for not cleaning the brush the day before and now being stuck with a tool coated in two days worth of chalk. Perhaps Bernice had a point when she reprimanded her earlier for being absent minded. The blonde tapped the eraser on the edge of the board, hoping to clean it enough to complete her task properly, and knocked a cloud of chalk dust into the air right by her own face. It tickled her nose near instantly and she released a high pitched sneeze, jerking forward with the involuntary action and whacking her head against the slate slab. A hand flew to her forehead, the other dropping the eraser to the floor and reaching out to steady the teetering chalkboard, sending out another puff of white.

There was a strangled sound from outside the room, like someone desperately trying to not laugh, and she looked to the empty doorway curiously. After ensuring the board wouldn't crash to the tile, Ebrisa stepped to the corridor to find the source of the noise. There was no one nearby, but a folded bit of paper lay on the floor just outside the room. She picked it up, intending to toss the discarded note, but stilled once she noticed her name scrawled on one side. Again, she looked up and down the walkway, but with lessons concluded for the day, it was completely empty.

A nervous flutter overtook her stomach, unsure what sort of message awaited her. With a deep breath, she unfolded the paper and read the short note inside. “ _Under the back pew._ ” She frowned, no less nervous or uncertain than she had been before reading. It was a small slip of paper and there wasn't really space for anything else on it, but surely the author could have been a little more direct with their intent if they tried.

She went back to her duties, working faster than she had in weeks due in part to the senior enchanter's coaxing but mainly so she could find out what was going on. By the time she had finished, anxiety had nearly overtaken her and she had to constantly tell herself not to run as she crossed the Gallows to the meager chapel. The note didn't say _chapel_ , but where else did one find a pew?

The room of worship was empty, as usual at that time of day, and Ebrisa was glad of the fact for the first time as she was certain she made quite the spectacle. She wasn't about to crawl around on the floor to look, but she did constantly dip her head and run her hand along the underside of the pew. It made her a little dizzy and by the time her fingers brushed the edge of a folded note wedged between the seat and the support leg she had to sit down.

This note was larger than the first – a proper sized sheet – and had her name written in the same slanted style as the first. Knowing she would have privacy for several more hours, she unfolded the paper and read to herself. The first half of the message was mostly scribbled out, bits of awkward greetings and the garbled remains of apologies, but the rest of the note was rather concise.

“ _Our responsibilities appear to be more time consuming than I initially thought, so I propose a change. One move a day. You'll find mine here before morning service, and you can leave yours by the end of the evening reading. Having an entire day to think of a counter should be more than enough time, even for you._

_Now then, I believe it was my turn to start. Pawn to E3._ ”

Ebrisa laughed quietly at the good-humored slight, holding the note to her chest. Cullen hadn't been upset or irritated. He hadn't regretted sitting down for that first game or any of the ones that followed. His duties were simply getting in the way of keeping any sort of schedule and this was the best way he could think of to continue their games. It wouldn't be the same as playing face-to-face, but if they could still have their banter, then she would treasure it just as much.

 

Their first game took a little over a month to complete, Ebrisa conceding when she realized her only move to get out of check would only delay her defeat by another round. Cullen had been a gracious winner, using his morning note to boast for only a few lines as he accepted her resignation. The mage buckled down on her efforts and kept a journal specifically to log their matches, trying to predict Cullen's future moves and strategizing as best she could. From time to time, either one could be seen wandering into the library and arranging the chess pieces on the board, staring at it for a while before resetting and walking away as though nothing had happened. The only ones who noticed this were the only ones who couldn't possibly care – the Tranquil.

Cullen was uncertain if it was the extra time she had to think or the lack of pressure from not actually sitting across the board from her opponent, but Ebrisa had definitely improved. Five months in and she won rather easily, adding a very haughty quip that – taken out of context or coming from anyone else – would have greatly irritated the templar. It was all part of their game, however, and Cullen began the next match with an equally dismissive comment.

“ _Perhaps I should start trying to win, instead of simply allowing the inevitable to happen. Pawn to E4._ ”

Ebrisa's response made him laugh in the middle of the corridor, startling the patrolling templars as he passed them.

_“Oh dear, I hope you don't expect me to start trying as well. I'd hate to hurt your Fereldan pride by crushing you so thoroughly. Pawn to C5._ ”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Farris finally died. Cullen had known him since he was recruited, had trained for years by his side, had grown to be close friends. Now he was alone.

“Cullen,” Surana called, knocking on the outside of the cage as though it was merely only that. “Why are you still holding out on me? The others gave up long ago – you're the last one in the entire tower. Did you know that?”

The templar snarled at the vision of the red-haired elf, knowing from the multiple visits before that she was not really there. The demons had assaulted him with questions, tortured him with streaks of wicked magic, and haunted him with images ripped from the deepest corners of his mind. He had tried so hard to resist their probing, to keep at least a piece of himself guarded, but the constant tormenting had discovered the face of his greatest shame.

His infatuation with the elven mage was ill-advised, he knew that from the start, but he had been almost instantly struck by her confidence and ability, marveled at how someone so charming could be so strong without being arrogant. He never acted on his desire to be closer to the mage, never had the courage to voice his admiration out loud, because once it was out he could never take it back. The fear that she would reject him or that she would accept him or that both of them would be severely punished had stayed his tongue on several occasions. After Surana's Harrowing, he had fumbled through a congratulations and let slip a few of his inner thoughts. When Surana winked and suggested they get to know each other better, he couldn't tell if she was being serious or merely playing around and ran off in a flustered demonstration of inadequate composure.

The Surana that flirted with him through the hazy barrier now was merely an echo of that memory, a way for the demons to torture him further until he broke like the others around him. Seeing the shadow of the woman he had pined after for so long whisper seductive lines and offer playful banter and being able to resist her served to strengthen his resolve that his greatest shame wasn't truly at the level he once thought.

“I know what you are,” Cullen almost growled, kneeling on the ground to pray once again. “I will stay strong...” He rocked gently, pressing his clasped hands to his forehead. “I will not listen to anything else you say, now begone!”

The other side of the barrier was quiet and Cullen let out a deep sigh of relief. Somehow, he could always banish the trick by denying insistently. At least for a little while.

“Cullen...”

He stilled, frozen on his knees. That voice was not Surana's.

The templar shot up his head, staring at the blonde figure that had replaced the elf and trying to find her in his memory. She smiled softly, brow creasing in concern as she slowly knelt opposite him. “Cullen,” she tried again. “Are you alright? I hate seeing you like this.” The blonde woman pressed a hand to the barrier, then retracted it near instantly with a soft yelp of pain. Her eyes roamed over the hazy field, as if seeing it for the first time. “Cullen?”

This was wrong.

How was she here?

“Ebrisa?”

The woman's eyes shot back to him, pressing against the barrier again and wincing at the discomfort, but not retreating. “Cullen, please, I can help you. You don't have to be alone.” Ebrisa smiled past the pain, trying to look as reassuring as possible. “I _want_ to help you. I can, if you let me.”

Cullen hesitated, retreating further into the magical cage, barely registering that the bodies of his friends were no longer there. He shot an accusing glare at the mage. “What trick is this now?”

She shook her head, clearly confused. “Cullen, I don't know what you're talking about. Please, _let me help you_.”

“Leave!” His voice rippled through the barrier, causing the electric pulse woven within to flare up and forcing Ebrisa to withdraw her hands. She looked down at her injured fingers, then back at Cullen, seemingly weighing her options before returning her hands to the now sparking surface and forcing the pain down. Cullen stared at her, not understanding why she would continue to subject herself to harm.

“You don't have to be alone, Cullen,” Ebrisa whispered. “I don't have to be either.”

They weren't in Kinloch Hold anymore, they weren't surrounded by demons or abominations, but the barrier remained. He no longer had captors, but still he was locked inside his cage.

_His_ cage.

He looked back at Ebrisa, realization settling in. The barrier was not meant to keep him in, but to keep others out. He was hurting Ebrisa to keep her at arms length, even though all she wanted to do was help him, to... to be with him? Was that really it?

Cullen carefully approached the mage, mirroring her on the other side of the barrier. Slowly, cautiously, he placed one of his own hands against hers, separated only by the hazy surface. Ebrisa followed the movement of his other hand with earnest, trying hard to restrain the hope quickly overtaking her face. As his hand settled in place, the cage shattered and they were left with nothing but air between them. Cullen took hold of her hands, gently turning them over to inspect the damage he'd done.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, lightly running his thumbs over her reddened palms. “I didn't mean to hurt you.” Ebrisa slipped a hand to his cheek, resting the other against his chest, and leaned in to close the space between them, now that there was only space.  
~~~~~~~~~  
Cullen gasped awake, his heart pounding in his chest as the last fragments of his dream desperately clung to his memory. Ebrisa's hand gently cupping his cheek, her eyes fluttering closed as she drew near, her warm breath tingling his skin, the barest sensation of her lips against his... and then he woke up. He'd had the nightmare with the fake Surana taunting him numerous times, but it had never differed before. His dreams never went like _that_ before.

It had been almost an entire year since they'd begun their secret string of chess games and there had been a gradual shift in the accompanying banter. The gentle jabs and easy back-and-forth gave way to actual questions and comments about their day and remarks that were rather... flirty. Cullen couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had happened or who was the first to start, but he knew that had to be the reason for his dream's sudden turn.

It was all just talk, though, right? They had been writing barbs for so long that the comments adopted some undertones for... variety. After all, there were only so many ways to jokingly belittle another person's skill in a board game. It didn't mean anything, like how they didn't actually mean any of the insults. It was all in good fun, and fun was a rare thing these days.

Cullen took slow, deep breaths in the quiet of his room and brought his pulse back under control. It was just a dream, nothing to read into. A strange, little dream that he woke up from much too soon.

 

He should have been pleased then, when the dream returned the next week and it carried on a little longer, allowing him the tender kiss he'd been denied the first time. Cullen swore he could still feel her lips when he woke up, basking in the sensation until the daze of sleep fully lifted and he realized the unsettling implications.

Each time the dream returned, the nightmare prelude with Surana grew shorter and the time with Ebrisa carried on just a bit further. Cullen found himself returning the kiss, deepening it, pulling Ebrisa close as she carded her hands through his hair. In the waking world, he did an impressive job of hiding his shame and carried on much as he always did, but in that dream he held no shame or hesitation and he let himself indulge in the forgotten sensations of touching another. But then Ebrisa released that mewl he heard the night of her Harrowing and it startled him awake, panting and flushed as he remembered it wasn't a random dalliance with an imagined stranger. He was dreaming of Ebrisa, of kissing her, holding her, caressing her... It was always her.

The revelation began to affect his conscious mind and he left his morning note without a single bit of commentary, simply the move. Ebrisa's response sent a jolt of panic through the templar when he read it.

“ _Did I keep you up all night and render you speechless at last? Knight to E2_.”

Did she know? No, it was impossible for Ebrisa to know he was dreaming about... well, about her. His note the next morning once again featured only his move. _“Knight to E4.”_

_“Sulking a little early, aren't we? I've barely begun to thrash you. Queen to C2.”_

_“Knight D to F6.”_

_“So bitter! Where is that Rutherford charm? Knight to G2.”_

_“Queen to D7.”_

_“Knight-Captain, are you alright? Knight to E3.”_

_“Rook A to D8.”_

_“What's wrong? Bishop to G2.”_

_“Knight to F2.”_

_“It is unlike you to not gloat for capturing one of my pieces, even a pawn. If this is all a tactic to lure me into a trap, I don't appreciate it. King to F2, though I don't much feel like gloating either.”_

_“Rook to E3.”_

_“You took another piece, and still nothing. Cullen, what's going on? Bishop to E3. If I give you back the rook, will you say something?”_

_“Knight to G4.”_

_“That would be a 'no' then... King to F3.”_

_“Knight to H2.”_

_“I appear to be in check. You can not even bother to say that much? I concede.”_

 

Ebrisa did not need to resign the game, as she could have easily moved her king from harm, but she had and now it was up to Cullen to begin a new one. His sleep that night was, thankfully, dreamless and boring, affording him a clear enough mind to come up with his opening and jot down the first move. The crisp pre-dawn air on his face as he left the Templar Hall and crossed into the central building helped to wake him up further, pushing the very idea of dreams to the back of his mind.

Focusing had been a little difficult as of late and the men had already suffered for it. The security of the Gallows had been compromised by assassins just the day before, but luckily their intended target had been able to fend them off long enough for help to arrive. It was no surprise that the Champion of Kirkwall had developed enemies over the years, but it was strange that a criminal cartel would be so brash as to attack her brother inside the fortress instead of while on a much more vulnerable patrol in the city. Although, the Circle's defenses did seem rather vulnerable now.

Meredith was convinced of mage involvement and granted Carver permission to investigate the hit with his sister in hopes of finding proof. Cullen was hesitant to disagree, as doing so would only point out his own failings in proper patrol routes and sentry posting. Still, he was certain the dwarves had found their own way in and hoped Carver would return with the needed corroborating evidence.

The chapel wasn't nearly as dark as it normally was so early in the morning and Cullen looked at the lit candles first with curiosity, then caution. True, a trained thief or killer would not announce their presence by creating more light, but few residents of the Gallows were ever awake at this hour. A figure moved in the stillness of the room and Cullen's hand instinctively went to his sword's hilt.

“Knight-Captain...”

His hand retreated, but he tensed up more than before as his eyes adjusted to the light and found Ebrisa moving the rest of the way out of the pew. “What are you doing in here so early?” Why couldn't it have just been an intruder?

“You haven't said anything for over a week,” she quietly began, though she could have yelled and still been unheard by outsiders. “Something happened, hasn't it?”

Cullen flinched, hoping the dim lighting would prevent her from catching his uncomfortable expression. “Happened? You mean besides the attempt on Ser Carver's life?”

He couldn't quite make out her frown, but knew it was there from the way she exhaled. “Not to diminish the severity of the situation, but yes, besides that.” She stepped closer, the combination of pale light from the doorway and flickering candles in the room illuminating her enough for Cullen to register the deep concern in her tired features. How long had she been waiting for him?

The idea of telling her a half-truth crossed his mind, but he knew Ebrisa wouldn't be satisfied with a dismissive _I've been having trouble sleeping_. He couldn't tell her the whole truth either, as revealing he'd unconsciously been doing ungentlemanly things to a Fade replica of her would surely drive the woman into a blushing, flustered mess and she'd bolt from the entire wing, determined to avoid him for a very long time. Honestly, she may do that even if he didn't mention it _was_ her.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” Ebrisa gently prodded. “We've talked things over before and, even if its not something I can fully comprehend, I think it would help.” She reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm, smiling softly in the dim room. “Please, _let me help you._ ” Why did she have to say that exact phrase?

The dream flashed through his mind, made all the more vivid with Ebrisa's actual scent and warmth being so close. Would she really taste the same, feel the same, react to his touches with the same airy gasps and faint blushes? The need to know was nearly overwhelming and before Cullen could pull the woman into his arms and find out, he screwed his eyes shut and pushed her away to create distance between them.

Ebrisa fell with his hard shove, the back of her knees knocking into the pew and sending her to the floor with a very surprised yelp. Cullen stared down at her, just as taken aback by his impulsive action as she was, and seemed to be struggling with the idea of helping her up or not. His hands flexed in front of him, mouth trying to form some sort of apology or explanation that could clear the whole thing up nice and neat. He took too long to complete either of the actions he hoped to accomplish, leaving Ebrisa to pull herself to her feet and draw her own conclusions.

“Its alright if you can't talk to me about it, and I apologize for forcing the matter.” The mage lifted a hand, as though to touch him again, but brought it to her own chest instead. “I do think that talking will help, and I hope you can find someone you trust enough to share your troubles with.” Ebrisa dipped her head and stepped past the templar, heading back to her quarters for a small rest before starting the day.

Cullen managed to hold in his groan until she was gone, dropping into a pew and hanging his head. Him trusting her wasn't the issue, but he couldn't exactly explain he was the untrustworthy one. Ebrisa had a point though – he needed to talk to someone about everything that was going on. Speaking to any of his subordinates was out of the question and talking to the mages or Tranquil would be equally inappropriate. The only person in the Gallows he knew well enough to discuss something this personal with had just left the chapel... and maybe that in itself was the answer.

 


	29. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill channels a little bit of Cole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, indulge me for a strange little side thing:  
> What are your favorite Cullen and Ebrisa moments? You can just say something like "that one part in chapter xx" and I'll figure it out. It's for something Varric related.

This was a bad idea.

Cullen completed his duties for the day with a renewed focus, catching and correcting the small mistakes he'd made previously before they snowballed into something noticeable. When all his tasks were finished, he heading into the city to go to confession. It wasn't that he thought he had necessarily done anything sinful just yet, but he needed a sounding board and the anonymity a confessional offered would be very useful. Even if the cleric on the other side of the screen said nothing helpful, the simple act of saying everything out loud would go a long way towards easing his anxiety. That was his intent, but as Cullen walked through the darkening streets of Lowtown, he was struck with another thought.

Maybe the reason he was, for lack of better word, fantasizing about Ebrisa was because he wasn't familiar enough with anyone else. After all, Cullen was a healthy, adult male and it was completely normal to have desires. Unlike many of the other templars serving in Kirkwall, he hadn't acted on any of those desires for a long, long time. These dreams were likely just his subconscious way of trying to deal with the sensations he had been denying himself. That was it. That _had_ to be it. If he could just find a small outlet and alleviate some of this pent up frustration, then everything could go back to normal.

That's why he was now standing in _The Hanged Man_ staring at his second mug of disgusting murky liquid and wondering how Corff had the gall to call it ale. If all the drinks in this place shared a similar taste quality, then Cullen would need to order something stronger just so he wouldn't have to consume as much. He wasn't aiming to get completely drunk, just loosen up enough that he could try to flirt with the women there. The other patrons were already loudly catcalling the tavern girls in between drink orders, so he knew the wait staff had grown a thick skin to such behavior from the way they thumped mugs on the tables and expertly caught roaming hands inches from their target.

Nella was the younger of the two servers working that night, hair worn in a low ponytail and a cheeky smile seemingly frozen in place. Norah had her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, a faint flush to her skin that – given the bored expression she wore – Cullen believed was from her own mild inebriation. Both woman wore the same low cut top, exposing their neck, shoulders, and a fair amount of cleavage in a purely strategic manner. Patrons would either leave larger tips to impress the women or buy more drinks to build up the courage to approach them. Cullen felt a sudden wave of nausea as he realized his intentions, though coming from a very different place, were really no better than the rabble drinking around him. He shook his head and took another swig of the nasty drink in his hand.

_Such_ a bad idea.

A woman slid in between Cullen and another patron, leaning on the bar and waving a hand around desperately. “Have you done deaf man? We've been calling for more bottles!”

The bartender rolled his eyes, but began loading a tray anyways. “For the last time, Isabela, I can't hear you from upstairs when we've got the night crowd.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Isabela sighed, slipping off the counter and turning away. She stopped, staring at Cullen as he tried to ignore her and focus on his mug. She flitted her hand towards the barkeep again. “Corff, are you seeing this?”

“Been seeing it for the past half hour,” Corff muttered. “The man keeps making faces at his drink. Don't think he likes my ale much.”

“Sweetheart, no one likes your ale. _You_ don't even like it.”

“That's 'cause I know what's in it...”

Isabela held up both hands and shook her head. “Stop right there, Corff. I don't want to know how the sausage is made.” Ignoring the barkeep's confused response, Isabela rested an elbow on the bar and looked the templar over once again. “As a bona fied fixture of this fine establishment, I can confidently say that you have never been here before. What brings you to _The Hanged Man_ this fair eve, Knight-Captain?”

Cullen held back his scoff, not quite buzzed enough to belittle a tavern right in front of the owner. He likewise was nowhere near drunk enough to tell the Rivaini he basically came there to pick up girls. “Everyone needs a good drink from time to time.”

She laughed loudly and smacked his arm with a surprising amount of strength. “Well you aren't going to find that on tap here!” Isabela pulled the wooden mug from Cullen's hand and passed it to the patron standing on the other side of her. “Bring up another glass with those bottles, would you, Corff? The knight-captain will be joining us.”

“Oh, no, that's not-”

“Nonsense,” Isabela laughed, locking her arm around Cullen's elbow and pulling him towards the stairs. “Don't worry, the bar won't fall down without you standing there to hold it up. If you want the good stuff, you got to pay a hefty price. Luckily, Varric is hosting and he's good for it.”

Cullen felt as though he should continue to refuse, but he _did_ come to the tavern to get to know some women, so this was technically in line with his goals. He swallowed the sigh that wanted to escape and followed Isabela to the upstairs suite, though he was extremely apprehensive about what was awaiting him there.

Isabela released his arm as she strode into the room, announcing her return with a very loud and exaggerated clearing of her throat. Varric, Merrill, and Fenris all looked up from their cards as she posed proudly with both hands on her hips. Fenris quickly returned his gaze to his hand, adjusting the card arrangement slightly. “Congratulations, you've found your way back.”

“Yes, well done.” Merrill chirped, her tone holding none of the sarcasm the other elf used.

“Thank you, kitten, but I actually found something else while I was away.” The Rivaini stepped to the side and motioned Cullen into the room, this time managing to hold the groups attention for more than a few seconds.

“Holy shit,” Varric mumbled, setting his cards face down on the table so he could properly stare at the templar.

“It comes off?” Merrill leaned forward in her chair to get a better look. “I didn't know it came off.”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling very awkward in his tunic and breeches. He had changed out of his armor before leaving the Gallows, hoping the plain clothes would enable him to blend in with the other visitors in the Chantry and glad he didn't have the Templar Order sigil plastered across his chest when he shifted plans and walked into the tavern instead. True, it was rare for him to be dressed as a civilian, but did they need to gawk at him so much?

“I don't live in my uniform,” he began, a little too defensively. “Guard-Captain Aveline doesn't spend every waking moment in her armor, does she?”

Varric smirked, sharing a look with the others.

“I get the feeling that was a bad example,” Cullen deadpanned, earning a chuckle from the dwarf.

“A valiant effort, regardless.” Varric waved towards an empty space at the table. “Take a seat, Curly.”

The templar took the offered seat by Merrill, a little uneased by her continued gawking. “My name's not _Curly,_ its _Cullen_.”

The dwarf fought down a smirk and nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, I see. My mistake.”

“You know,” Isabela drawled as Norah entered the room and began to set down the new bottles and spare glass. “Considering that Aveline is on her honeymoon, Donnic may have managed to get her out of that armor at last. Unless, you know, they've got some kinky stuff planned.”

Fenris grabbed a bottle of wine, popping the cork effortlessly. “At least part of the armor would need to come off, or they won't be able to get very far.”

“True that,” Isabela chuckled, opening a brandy and pouring it into the new glass. She leaned over the table, sliding the drink to Cullen in a manner that afforded him a very full view of her breasts.

He instantly averted his eyes, despite reminding himself this was basically why he was there. He should look, right?

“Can I touch?” Merrill blurted out, making Cullen snap his attention back to the elf at his side.

“ _What_?” The question came out a bit higher than he intended.

“I haven't seen it this close before. It's all twisty,” Merrill explained as she made a swirling motion with her finger.

Cullen realized she had been staring at his hair and after getting no interjections from the others at the table, he hesitantly consented. Merrill giggled in excitement and grabbed a curl between her fingers, gently pulling it out straight and releasing it, watching the lock spring back into place. She moved her hand through his hair, making a curious hum at the resistance as she scraped against his head.

In his dreams, Ebrisa would run her fingers through his curls and the sensation of her nails dragging across his scalp sent a pleasant tingling down his spine. Merrill curiously prodding his head now was just strange and he batted her hand away after only a few moments. “I trust you are satisfied?”

“Actually, I was-”

“Daisy,” Varric cut in, flashing the mage a small smile. “Why don't we get back to Wicked Grace, hmm?”

She twisted in her chair and picked her cards back up, eagerly awaiting her turn. “His hair just feels so different from da'len's. I thought that since they were both curly, they would match. Do you think it's because her hair is long? I wish she'd let me play with it more.”

Fenris discarded and drew, scowling just slightly at his new card. “Perhaps when next she tends to the wyvern you can prance around in flowers and braid each others hair.”

“That sounds like fun! Oh, but there aren't hardly enough flowers by Leopold's cave.” Merrill frowned, disappointed the imagined activity wouldn't work out. “I don't suppose she gets to see many flowers, cooped up in the Gallows all the time.”

Cullen took a sip of the brandy he'd been given, finding the stuff far stronger than he was used to. He'd have to pace himself if he wanted to stay in control. “Ebrisa has actually established small flower beds in the interior yards.”

“Has she now?” Merrill looked back to the templar, smiling slowly as if suddenly figuring something out. “So _that's_ why she smells so nice.”

“No, that's because of the soaps she makes,” Cullen responded without thinking. He stilled, glass inches from his mouth as he realized what he said. Maybe no one would notice.

“So you think she smells nice, eh, Knight-Captain?” Varric smirked almost deviously.

Cullen took another gulp of brandy in an attempt to buy time. “I – uh – hadn't noticed one way or the other, but it stands to reason floral soaps would have a bigger impact.” Besides, when Ebrisa tended the yards, she smelled more of fresh earth than flowers. Merrill hummed as she turned back to her cards, but Varric and Isabela continued to watch him and study the faint blush creeping over his skin. He took another drink, hoping his silence would force their attention elsewhere.

“Seems strange for a templar to keep track of soap,” Fenris said in both a nonchalant and mocking manner. “I imagine doing so for the entire Circle would be difficult. Or do you only observe the wyvern mage's scent?”

The brandy burned his throat as Cullen choked on it, somehow managing to set down the empty glass and not sputter the alcohol at the unexpected comment. The brooding elf seemed to be taking great pleasure in Cullen's discomfort and the templar eyed the doorway, weighing the pros and cons of just walking out of the room.

Isabela leaned over the table once again, refilling the glass and winking at Fenris. “I think that's enough talk about smells for now. This man is the templar knight-captain! Surely we can come up with something better to discuss.”

Cullen nodded his thanks, both for the refill and the subject change. “Yes, well, you mentioned the guard-captain was away?”

Isabela plopped back into her chair, tossing her hands into the air. “Big girl is in Orlais, Hawke went hunting for some moronic Carta thugs with Carver, Sebastian, and Anders, and here _we are_ , doing nothing.”

“To the Left Behind Squad,” Varric chuckled, lifting his glass.

“Here, here.” Fenris raised the bottle he was drinking from, clinking it against Varric's cup.

Merrill hummed quietly. “I don't know. I'm rather glad Hawke didn't ask me to go to the Vimmark Wasteland. It doesn't sound the least bit pleasant.”

“Merrill's got a point,” Isabela sighed, propping her feet on the table and crossing her ankles. “Any place with _wasteland_ in the name can't be fun.” She adjusted in her seat, angling her legs until she was satisfied Cullen had a good view. “But with Mom and Dad gone, we could be having all sorts of fun right here.”

“Very subtle, Rivaini,” Varric chuckled.

She ignored him, focusing on the templar well into his second glass of very potent brandy. “You know, _Cullen_ , I always did like a man in uniform.” Isabela paused, waiting for him to finally look at her. “But I think I might like him out of uniform better.”

Fenris' eyeroll was almost audible. “Just climb on top of him, why don't you?”

“No need to be so lewd.” Merrill clicked her tongue in disapproval at the fighter, completely missing Isabela's obvious meaning.

Cullen hadn't, but he returned his gaze to the nearly empty glass in his hands, focusing on the foggy scratches on the surface until he felt a thump beside him. He turned his head, finding Isabela sitting on the table and after a moment he collected his resolve and finally drew his eyes over the rogue's curvy form. This was why he had come to the damn tavern in the first place, wasn't it?

She was attractive, he supposed, but something just seemed off. Neither the woman as a whole or any of her individual assets could hold his attention despite the potent liquor and by the time he returned his gaze to her face he found her smirking in amusement. “What's the matter, Cullen? Puppy got your tongue?”

“I think you mean _cat,_ ” Varric corrected as he too paid careful attention to the scene across the table.

“Oh, no, its definitely a puppy that's got her pretty little nails in the knight-captain.” Isabela winked at Cullen, laughing lightly as he remained unaffected by her attempted seduction. “Well, I think I'll turn in for the night. Any company is, of course, welcome.” She slid off the table and walked out of the room, lingering nearby. Cullen set down his drink and thanked Varric for his hospitality before standing and leaving as well. He stepped into the corridor and continued on right past Isabela, moving down the steps and out of the tavern.

Isabela laughed again, shaking her head. “Fereldans. They sure do like their puppy loves.”

~~~~~~~  
The alcohol in his system enabled Cullen to fall asleep near instantly with his awkward tavern experience still fresh in his mind. The woman in his dream became more confident as the encounter progressed, biting her lip and slowly unlacing her garments by the time Cullen woke up more flustered than ever. Ebrisa had not been replaced, but she had adopted some of Isabela's forwardness and the templar groaned into his pillow in frustration at the complete backfiring of his plan.

When Cullen did go to the Chantry a few days later, he realized it had clearly been the better option. The hidden cleric on the other side of the confessional listened carefully to his concerns, asking for clarification on points he made that were too vague, but never details he didn't wish to disclose. As such, the mother had no idea that he was a templar and the woman he kept seeing in his sleep was a mage, but she knew enough to offer a bit of comfort.

She reminded Cullen that no one can control their dreams, and as such can not be held accountable for them. So long as he did not repeat any of those actions in the waking world, he had nothing to fret about and he had not, as of yet, sinned. He was grateful for the reassurance and walked out of the Chantry feeling more like himself than he had in weeks, but it remained difficult to look at Ebrisa and not hear her Fade-self gasping in his ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andraste's flaming sword, I just started working on 'The Last Straw' and nnnnngh! I have 'post game' stuff planned, so I'm not done, but writing the finale of the game kind of makes it feel like its done. ._.


	30. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legacy DLC spoilers and...  
> ...  
> ...and I'm so sorry.

Vemara yawned loudly into her books, stumbling through the corridor towards her next lesson with bleary eyes. The roommate she had now was around Edan's age and resented sharing any space at all with a _filthy child_. Whereas Ebrisa had been kind and caring, lulling Vemara to sleep with songs and helping with her studies, Mayda had all but drawn a line across their quarters to keep the elf on her own side. Vemara rarely had bad dreams when Ebrisa shared the space, but when she did the blonde would allow Vemara to slip into her bed and stroked her dark hair until the lingering fear subsided.

The first time Vemara woke up crying from a nightmare, Mayda chastised her for being a baby. Each nightmare grew worse and the child buried her face in her pillow to muffle the sound of her terrified sobs until the sun came up. She just had to bare the images until breakfast where Ebrisa could gently rub her back and whisper comforting words. The blonde could vanquish the fear, but was powerless to ease the tiredness staying up all night caused.

Despite her slow pace, the elf managed to slide into a seat just before Senior Enchanter Bernice began. Vemara fought off sleep by writing very detailed notes and constantly glancing at Ebrisa as the blonde quietly walked around the room to ensure the apprentices were paying attention to the instructor and assist if they had any questions.

The junior enchanter had grown into her role and was now able to stay focused while on duty, something Bernice had praised her for more than once, but Vemara could see the tension resting in her shoulders for the past two week as though deeply troubled by something. It hadn't taken long for the elf to realize it was Cullen related, as those were the times Ebrisa struggled to hide her emotions the most, and Vemara began a secret campaign against the man with completely childish and entirely unnoticed acts of retribution. Edan initially chastised her for the odd pranks, but once he realized the target, he quickly flipped his view and began assisting.

Vemara just couldn't understand how the same person could make Ebrisa elated one day and on the verge of tears another. She thought back to the many rules and stipulations surrounding mage-templar interactions and huffed once again about how silly Andrastians could be. Ebrisa, despite her own fierce devotion, never forced Vemara into reading scripture or praying with her. With Feynriel's assistance, the elf was given the chance to follow the Maker or the Creators.

It was difficult, but Vemara decided to follow the beliefs of her ancestors that her mother had unsuccessfully tried to explain to her. Few in the Gallows shared the belief, so she sought support wherever she could. An older elf, Huon, was initially very kind and helpful, but over the last year he had become too focused on the lost glory of _the people_ and what could be done to restore it. Feynriel, though Tranquil, still addressed any questions or concerns Vemara had, albeit in a very pragmatic fashion. The biggest support the young girl got, as was the case with everything, was from Ebrisa.

Ebrisa never belittled the different belief or take on history, knowing that for so many people to hold onto the tales for so long there had to be at least a grain of truth to them. Facts were distorted over time, explanations lost to fantasy, but at the core she believed there must have been something there. Thinking this did nothing to diminish Ebrisa's own faith and she still believed there to be only one god, but some sort of benevolent group must have watched over the early elves and left such an impact that their lessons were still taught. If Vemara wanted to follow those teachings and embrace her heritage, then Ebrisa wouldn't stand in her way.

~~~~~~~~~~  
The temperature had dipped significantly earlier than it had in previous years and Ebrisa scrambled to plant bulbs in the yards before the earth became too cold to maneuver through. The normally calming activity was filled with internal chastising remarks and belittlement, preventing her from finding peace in even this.

In addition to so vehemently refusing her aid, Cullen seemed to still be angry that Ebrisa would even offer it. He became rigid around her, tilting his frame away in an almost unnoticed manner and speaking with carefully arranged words when he had to address her. The times he wasn't required to say anything, he kept his jaw clenched and lips tight, nonverbal clues that he had no desire to talk to her at all.

She'd only wanted to help him like he helped her, but Cullen had made it abundantly clear that it wasn't her place to do so. He'd become fed up with her interference, tolerating her previous meddling in his personal affairs with a silence that Ebrisa now realized was not an open invitation to keep doing so. Just because he hadn't torn himself from her grip when she dragged him to the chapel two years ago or stormed out of the yard when she tried to alleviate his perceived anxiety regarding Petrice, didn't mean she had been helpful or that it was appreciated. Maker, she must have been so annoying.

Cullen had seen her at her worst, been there when she was at her lowest, and went beyond the call of duty to help her. Ebrisa knew it didn't fall into the normal scope of mage-templar interactions, but that didn't seem to matter. He always knew just what to say to cut through the hurt and sorrow, knew just what she needed before even she did. She would be lost, and he would find her.

It pained her more than she thought possible that she couldn't do the same for him. Ebrisa could recognize something was wrong, but was powerless to shift the discomfort away even a little for Cullen. She had tired, and she failed. It was possible she always failed. The idea that she couldn't smooth the creases from Cullen's brow or rid his mouth of its near constant frown was like being hit by that Qunari explosion all over again. The longer it persisted, the more it hurt and the harder it was to breath.

What she would give to see him smile at her even a little...

The last bulb planted, Ebrisa wiped her dirty hands on her gardening smock and gathered up her supplies. She stood up with a heavy sigh and took a moment to try and set her expression to something relatively neutral before turning to leave. A startled squeak slipped out as her eyes settled on Carver walking towards her, the almost sudden appearance making her drop the supplies in alarm. The bucket rolled in a wide circle, spilling the extra bulbs across the flagstones while Ebrisa calmed down.

“Ser Carver, you've returned,” she said, stating the obvious as her mind tried to catch up.

The templar thumped a small bundle in his hands as he continued to move forward. “Not the warmest welcome I've received today, but still accurate.”

Ebrisa shook her head and sighed once again. She just wasn't doing anything right these days. “Apologies. I'm a little...”

“Distracted?” Carver finished for her, tucking the bundle under an arm before kneeling to begin gathering up the wayward plants. Ebrisa quickly knelt down to help with the task she should have been doing already.

“I trust the Carta has been dealt with?”

He looked up at her, a little confused, then made a quiet _oh_ and nodded. “Right, the Carta. With everything else that happened, I forgot that's why we went out there...”

Ebrisa was quiet, resisting the initial urge to ask what happened in light of her recent prying with Cullen. The silence between them didn't last long, Carver tossing a bulb into the bucket as he spoke once again.

“Have you ever found out something about your parents that you didn't expect to?”

She had, and she was certain it went both ways in her case. Fearing to add unwanted explanations, she simply nodded.

Carver frowned at the bare flowerbed, trying to decide how much to disclose. He'd already talked with his sister about all of this, but she – in her usual fashion – undermined the seriousness with attempts at humor. “This may seem odd, me being a templar and all, but my father was an apostate. Spent time in this very Circle, in fact.” Ebrisa looked up sharply, but said nothing. “Our whole lives were spent in near constant fear of templars finding us and I resented him a little. Putting us through all that? He just seemed so selfish.”

“If he hadn't been at least a little selfish,” Ebrisa began cautiously, “then he never would have married your mother or fathered you.”

He chuckled dryly. “Again, accurate.” Carver shook his head and continued. “When Bethany showed the first signs of magic, he was so happy. He doted on her endlessly, spending nearly every moment teaching her how to control her power and how to hide it.”

Ebrisa chewed her lip, trying – and ultimately failing – to not pry. “You've mentioned her once before, but never really...”

A solemn look passed over the templar's face and Ebrisa instantly regretted saying anything, but before she could backtrack, Carver spoke again. “She was my twin, and twice as annoying as Dee. She never wanted to be a mage. She spent her entire life trying to just... _be normal_.” Carver's voice dropped and Ebrisa once again regretted opening her inconsiderate mouth. “We were arguing while fleeing Lothering, can you believe that? Death and darkspawn all around, and we took the time to yell at each other about something stupid. Maker, it was so stupid...”

The woman balled her hands in the dirty smock in an effort to keep them to herself. Carver was obviously remembering something painful, something he hadn't worked through yet, and Ebrisa didn't want to overstep her place by setting a comforting hand on his knee or arm. She focused on keeping silent and still, allowing the templar to reveal only what he wanted and letting him leave when he couldn't take any more.

“There were too many darkspawn and we were too spread out,” he said in an almost whisper. “This terrible hulk of a creature came charging in and we were _too spread out_. It went right for Mother, and Bethany... she tried her best, but... it just _snatched her up like she was nothing_ and-” Carver took in a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes and pressing his lips into a tight line as he regained his focus. “I was angry with Father for years after, even though he was gone before her. If he let Bethany go to a Circle, then maybe she would still be alive. If he hadn't passed magic on to her, then maybe she could have learned to fight like me and Dee and would have stood a better chance. He was so selfish, and it just drove me mad.”

Ebrisa wanted to say something, but didn't, her confidence in appropriate responses had been too shaken to try. Would telling Carver that magic wasn't consciously passed on make him feel foolish for his anger? Would explaining that the Blight had been no one's fault belittle everything he suffered from it? Would revealing her brother had also become a templar come off as being relatable or attention seeking?

“So, imagine my surprise when we find out the idiotic Carta wasn't after the Champion of Kirkwall and her brother, but the blood of Malcolm Hawke. Yet another thing in his shady past that came around to bite us.” Carver shook his head, the sarcastic tone in his voice just a few shades shy of the true emotion. “He was working with Grey Wardens, using blood magic when he had always told Bethany to stay away from it, and never once mentioned it. Every step I took behind Dee as we walked through that darkspawn filled pit made me angrier and angrier. What did Mother ever see in him? Did she even know what he was doing? What other secrets did he keep from us?”

Carver's entire body drooped just a little, like the weight of his anger was pressing down on him. “Turns out, he wasn't a willing participant. Grey Wardens threatened to kill Mother, who was already pregnant with Dee, unless Father did as he was told. He risked his life and broke the last of his vows to work the one kind of magic he swore he never would. He gave up the last thing he held onto from the Circle for Mother. For his family.”

The templar sighed heavily, shaking the anger from his shoulders. “I always knew Mother gave up a lot to be with him, but it never occurred to me that Father had sacrificed, too. Bethany never felt she could live up to him, and I always scoffed at that... now I just feel like a right ass.”

Unable to stay a silent observer any longer, Ebrisa reached forward and placed a hand between Carver's gorget and pauldron, the gap just wide enough for her palm. “From what you've told me, it sounds like she did live up to him, and I think he would have been proud.”

Carver raised his eyes, finding the mage smiling gently, and lowered them back down in embarrassment. “I miss her and Father. And Mother.” He paused, glancing back up with a small smirk to undermine the sincerity of his previous statements with a Hawke-like quip. “Dee, sometimes.”

Ebrisa removed her hand and leaned back, a tiny breath of a laugh slipping out. “Don't worry, she won't hear about it from me.”

“Good, because the last thing I need after a family outing like that is more teasing from my sister.” Carver picked up the nearly forgotten bundle and handed it to the mage. “Anyways, Isabela is loaning you this book. She was concerned it wouldn't make it through the normal channels and asked me to give it to you.”

She untied the cloth wrapping and read the title curiously. “' _Hessarian's Spear'_? Is this a historical text? I didn't know the archon wielded a spear.”

Carver shrugged before climbing to his feet. “Maybe? She said you could learn a lot from it.”

“That's very thoughtful...” The author didn't sound familiar, so Ebrisa turned the book over and read the description, looking for clues as to the scholar's credentials. “ _Andraste knelt before no man but her Maker, but she hadn't counted on the archon Hessarian_.” Odd start, but she continued. “ _Can Hessarian penetrate the tight-knit defenses of the warrior-prophetess? Will she be prepared to face the full blast of his... power_?”

Carver snatched the book from her hands, face heating from equal parts anger and embarrassment. “That wine-soaked pearl diver, she _would_ give you something like this!” He flipped through the pages to verify his assumptions, cheeks reddening as he slammed it closed. “Andraste's Ass, there are pictures.” Carver groaned. “That... that was very much the wrong choice of words.”

“So...” Ebrisa's brow creased in confusion as Carver scrambled to rewrap the text. “What kind of book is it?”

“If you don't already know, then I'm not going to be the one to explain it to you.” He tucked the bundle under his arm, trying to think of a safe place to hide the book until he could return it that wouldn't result in him getting written up for contraband. He really should have known the pirate was up to something from the way she kept winking and claiming there was dust in her eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~   
Senior Enchanter Bernice stood still in the front of the room, speaking loudly and clearly to the group of apprentices about how the different grinding methods could produce vastly different results for certain herbs. The mortar and pestles were already set at the desks before the lesson began and Ebrisa walked around handing out elfroot and spindleweed. Practical lessons always required a fair amount of prep work and Bernice was tremendously grateful to have assistance with it now. Honestly, she wasn't certain how she ever managed without a junior enchanter.

Ebrisa had almost finished distributing the herbs, rounding the last row of desks and approaching the door when a frantic preteen burst into the room. The woman started in surprise, recognizing the girl as one of Vemara's classmates. Bernice huffed, perplexed by the sudden appearance of an unescorted mageling. “What is the meaning of this?”

The girl ignored her, searching the room.

“Serrah Kerstin?” Ebrisa furrowed her brow in confusion, instantly drawing the girl's attention.

Kerstin grabbed the enchanter's sleeve, tugging insistently. “You have to come now, she can't stop!”

“What are you-”

“Vemara's in trouble!”

The woven basket dropped to the floor, carefully harvested green and red leaves spilling out as it bounced and flipped over. Not caring about the mess or bothering to wait for either Bernice's or a templar's permission, Ebrisa hurried after the apprentice with a thousand worried thoughts swarming her mind. Couldn't stop? What did Kerstin mean she couldn't stop? Vemara had only recently begun actual spell casting instead of the mana manipulation drills she used to perform in practical lessons and Ebrisa thought back to her own, disastrous first attempts.

The corridor outside Alton's training hall was filled with apprentices crowding around the doorway to watch at a relatively safe distance as templars once again tried to cross the near empty room. A streak of lightning jumped into the corridor, sparking along the ceiling and making the group back up further with almost perfect synchronization and harmonizing gasps. The squad of templars rushed back out of the room, tiny arcs of electricity still dancing on some of their armor.

Ebrisa searched the crowd desperately, hoping that the sinking feeling in her stomach was wrong. When Kerstin tugged her sleeve again and pointed to the doorway, Ebrisa felt the pained whine creep up her throat. She pushed through the crowd, much easier now that they had expanded their circumference, and stared across the spark filled space to find Vemara curled into a ball at the end of the hall. The young elf was crying, pleading for everything to stop, as the torrent of lightning swirled around her. Bodies lay unmoving in the room, electricity still circulating their metal armor and Ebrisa finally understood why the situation had escalated so much. The templars couldn't get close enough to use their cleansing abilities. The only thing that could stop the errant magic was kept out of range.

Well, maybe not the only thing. Magic was often controlled by emotions and if she could just calm Vemara down, then maybe it would stop...

Ebrisa began removing every bit of metal on her person, dropping accessories and shedding clothing until she was in the base layer of her robes. She took a deep breath and gripped the door frame, blocking out the confused rabble behind her and focusing on the crying child before her. She had never let Vemara down, and she wasn't about to start now.

She began singing Vemara's lullaby loudly, clearly, and in a voice she normally reserved for the anonymity of a Chantry service hymn where she could simply blend in with the masses. It needed to cut through the noise of the lightning crackling and echoing in the training hall, it needed to reach the elf, and it needed to stay steady enough to hide her own fear. Ebrisa stepped into the room, pushing through the light wisps of electricity that made loose strands of her hair dance in the air. She made it into the second stanza by the time Vemara looked up, confusion overtaking her terror as she locked eyes with the older mage. The lighting eased slightly and Ebrisa pressed on, keeping unwavering eye contact now that she had it.

A streak whizzed by her head, making every strand of hair on her body stand up and her voice falter slightly, but she did not stop. She would never stop. Vemara's tears increased, fearful now that she would hit her friend and send her to the floor like the templars. Why hadn't the templars gotten up yet?

Somehow, Ebrisa had managed to navigate the storm and dropped to her knees, pulling Vemara into a soothing embrace. She dropped her voice to a whisper, singing sweetly into the child's ear as the sparks died down and she neared the end of the lullaby. “ _My voice you can follow – I will always call you home.”_

Vemara clung to her tightly, burying her face in the enchanter's neck as she hiccuped.

_“I will always call you-”_

A surge of energy cut through the two mages, ripping the song from Ebrisa's throat as she fell over. Vemara seemed more drowsy and confused than the suffocating pain Ebrisa was stricken with and she clutched to the blonde's cotton layers as the last echos of her magic faded around them. “Ebrisa? What's going on? Everything feels funny...”

Ebrisa gasped in a large breath. “I know, but it will be okay. It will pass.” She looked down into Vemara's round, questioning eyes and smiled as reassuringly as she could.

A gauntlet encased hand reached out and yanked Vemara from the loose circle of Ebrisa's arms, pulling her back until she was clear of the older mage. Vemara looked frantically from the templar standing over her to her friend laying a few tiles away and stretched out her hand. Ebrisa held on to her smile, trying to keep the child calm.

“Don't worry,” the enchanter whispered, reaching out her own heavy limb and barely brushing her fingers against the smaller set. “It will be okay.”

There was a strange, sharp noise and Vemara's eyes widened briefly, mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. Being severed from the Fade made things seem so hazy, like a waking dream, and Ebrisa stared curiously as Vemara shook lightly from side to side.

“Went in at a bad angle,” Ser Leon grumbled, pulling at his stuck blade and making the elf sway once again. The templar set a boot on Vemara's torso to keep her still and yanked his sword free of her chest with a quiet grunt of effort.

Realization hit Ebrisa slowly as her senses began to return, warm blood filling the grout lines and spreading over the tiles while she continued to stare into Vemara's now empty eyes. But, no. That couldn't be right. She had stopped the danger, everything was going to be okay. She said everything would be okay. She told Vemara it would be okay!

Someone started screaming, the sound distant and heart-wrenching but somehow loud in her ears. Leon looked at her, as if annoyed, and called in some of the other templars. They grabbed Ebrisa, one at each arm, and dragged her from the room just before Vemara's blood reached her outstretched hand. The screaming followed them as the templars took her from the wing and down to the still functional portion of the prison. They dropped her unceremoniously in the center of an isolation cell, leaving Ebrisa with the screaming and it wasn't until her unnoticed tears dripped into her ears that she realized it was her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Vemara was named 'Gaelynn', which means 'tranquil' and I was going to make her one, but this is near the end of 9:36 Dragon and Meredith is too far gone for that.  
> Her death will not be meaningless, it serves a purpose and sets up future events.  
> Please don't be turned off by this story because I allowed a templar to kill a child.


	31. Consequences

With the dramatic way things unfolded that morning, there was nothing that could keep the news from spreading through the Gallows like wildfire. By lunch, every mage knew the grim fate of the young elf and a hush fell over the dinning hall when Edan entered and sat at an empty table. He'd only followed the slow stream of his peers to meal out of sheer habit, still too shocked to grasp any of his higher mental functions.

Edan vividly remembered each tiny spat, every irrational flick of anger, and the smug satisfaction that always followed winning an argument against the raven-haired girl. All of the things that used to infuriate him – the slanted angle of her pout, the screeching pitch of her voice as she whined, that damnable cheeky grin when she won Ebrisa over to her side – those were the things he knew he would miss most about Vemara. He'd grown and changed so much since arriving in Kirkwall, but somehow Vemara seemed to stay exactly the same. She was still so much a child. She was a child, and a templar murdered her.

Edan slammed a fist on the table, doing more damage to his hand than the planked construct, and felt his shock give way to rage. She was just a child! She was still learning, still unsure, and after only one mistake she had been killed. Did templars care so little about mages now that even the Rite of Tranquility was off the table?

The bench dipped slightly as someone sat beside him, folded feminine arms coming into view out of the corner of his eyes. “Terrible thing that happened. A tragedy.” Edan tilted his head, looking at the older woman he had spent so much time trying to avoid since her lover slit his palm all those years ago. “As horrible as it is,” Grace continued, “you can't really say you're surprised.”

He had tried to be, but in truth Edan had never held the same blind belief as Ebrisa. He wanted to trust that the templars were, as a whole, good people, but Kirkwall was doing a poor job of supporting that as his time there wore on. “That anyone would want to hurt the wee naff is surprising enough without dragging templars into it.” His voice was low and menacing, brogue thicker than it had been for years.

Grace chuckled deep in her throat, seemingly taking delight in his ire. “Starkhaven had its problems, but it was never this bad. When I think of all the innocents slain on the journey here...” She trailed off, sighing.

“Does that include the templar escorts your maleficar boy toy killed?”

The woman bristled, digging her nails into the grooves of the table to keep them still. “Decimus was the greatest man I've even known, you disrespectful little-” She clamped her mouth shut, inhaling through her nose as she calmed. “The point is, there is a better way to live than under the crushing thumb of Meredith. Alain has talked to you about this before.”

That was certainly true. Alain had approached him more than once about some sort of coalition for reformation of the Gallows. According to Thrask and some of the more senior templars, things had been much different before Meredith took over. There had been the sort of mutual respect that Circles were supposed to be based on and the slowly formulating group had hopes of restoring the understanding between mages and templars. The problem – they were convinced – was the knight-commander and as soon as she was gone, everything else would fall into place. They could make the Gallows a safe place for learning, protected from the misguided masses who feared magic, instead of the literal prison that caged mages in with the same misguided people who would do them harm.

It had never seemed like a worthy risk before, but now? Now Edan had half a mind to storm into Meredith's office all by himself and crush the woman's skull with a landslide of boulders. He could feel Grace's cold eyes on him as she waited for his answer, and knew that if Ebrisa had been there, he wouldn't have even considered joining the rumored blood mage's underground rebellion. But Ebrisa wasn't there.

Edan extended a hand under the table, looking around the dining hall cautiously. “Starkhaven mages should stick together, right?”

Grace grinned widely and clasped his hidden hand, squeezing it tightly. “That's right.” Edan couldn't bare to look at the woman or anyone else for the rest of the meal, feeling very much like he had made pact with a demon and knowing things were only going to get far, far worse before they got any better.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~   
The air had been charged all day and Cullen refused to comment about the event, even after reading the official incident report. Calling the death of Vemara Petit an _incident_ left a bad taste in his mouth, but that was nothing compared to the sickening feeling he got reading Ser Leon's words. The older templar was anything but gentle, but the report he submitted was so horrendously nonchalant about killing the young elf that Cullen couldn't deny the sense of satisfaction he got watching the templar pack up his meager possessions from the group barracks.

That feeling was short lived as Leon turned up the stairs to the officer quarters instead of leaving the building altogether. Cullen followed, thinking Leon might be attempting some sort of retribution, and was baffled to find the man settling into an empty room. Leon looked over his shoulder, a smile so smug on his face it spoke once again of his uncaring nature.

“Knight-Captain. Bring me a housewarming gift?”

“Housewarming?” Cullen repeated back, confusion difficult to discern from his carefully guarded features.

Leon straightened, tossing a spare shirt from the bundle of his things to the bed. “I suppose, technically, its the same house, but no matter. Such a glorious feeling to have my own space after all this time.” He set the bundle on the small desk, studying the space once again. “And to think, all it took was the death of one, knife-earred robe. If I knew that, I would have done in the brat years ago.”

Resisting the urge to punch the smugness from Leon's face, Cullen removed himself and headed straight for Meredith's office. It was some sort of mistake. Leon had misinterpreted orders. There was simply no way that he, of all people, had been rewarded for that day's overreaction.

Cullen knocked on his commander's door, determined to find out exactly what had happened during her earlier debriefing with Leon. When she called Cullen in, he wasted no time before addressing the issue as respectfully as possible. “Knight-Commander, Ser Leon has taken residence in the officer wing.”

Meredith released a single chuckle. “I imagine he pounced upon the first empty room he saw. Tell me he didn't take the one that drips when it rains, though I hardly think he'll be doing any complaining for a while after finally making lieutenant.” A long silence followed as Meredith continued her writing, waiting for Cullen to respond or excuse himself. When he did neither, she set down her quill and straightened in her chair. “Is there something you wish to add?”

“Permission to speak freely?”

She nodded and waved a hand, indicating the Fereldan to go ahead.

Cullen took one last steadying breath as he closed the door, wanting to keep his rare show of doubt in Meredith's decisions as secret as possible. “While it is true that Ser Leon has served the Templar Order for many long years, I fear that in that time his understanding of the task has... altered. He believes you promoted him for killing apprentice Petit this morning.”

“It was a justified decision made in a dire situation,” Meredith calmly began. “His quick thinking brought an end to the matter and for _that_ , I rewarded him.”

“By his own admission, Petit was already subdued when he felled her.” Cullen felt more than heard his indignation, a rumble slipping into the level volume of his voice. “The apprentice had only just begun casting. I am not saying there should have been no repercussions, but certainly on the spot execution for a first offense was not the answer.”

Meredith met Cullen's eyes and held them in place. “Otis. Peirce. Guot.” She stood up, gaze never wavering. “What crimes did they commit? What did your templar brothers do for that mage to slay _them_?”

The man resisted shrinking away or averting his eyes, willing himself to stay firm in his resolve. “Leon had no authority to pass judgment. He should have followed procedure and taken Petit to isolation until someone in power could deal with her. It was not his call to make, and promoting him for doing so will only encourage him to ignore protocol again in the future.”

“He followed instincts in a time-sensitive situation. Waiting for orders could have resulted in further death.”

“Ser Leon killed a defenseless apprentice of his own volition,” Cullen snapped. “He should be reprimanded, not rewarded.”

Meredith's own calm slipped away, returning the man's heated words with searing ones of her own. “He ended a dangerous threat!”

“He murdered a child!” The volume of his voice was far louder than he'd ever raised to a commanding officer before and somewhere in the back of his mind Cullen was pulling up the consequences of such an action, but for now he couldn't be bothered to care. Vemara was only ten years-old, and Leon was making jokes about killing her! The blasted templar was so damn flippant about the entire thing, as though the life he ended was worth less than the dirt under his boots.

“That's the real issue for you, isn't it?” Meredith's demeanor dropped some of its earlier anger, but maintained the authoritative tone. “I know it can be difficult to see a child as anything but innocent, but being young does not make them blameless. A mage is a mage and for far too many the curse proves too strong a burden.” She paused, seeking out her captain's gaze once again. “I thought that you, of all the templars here, were well aware of that.”

Despite all the death and horrid things he had seen in Kinloch Hold, Cullen had thankfully been spared the sight of children becoming abominations. He learned later that a senior enchanter had kept them safe on the lowest level of the tower, but his anger and hatred had been too powerful at the time to fully appreciate the fact.

“I have witnessed a young mage turn before my very eyes. Rip a woman she loved dearly to shreds before turning on the helpless village.” Meredith sighed quietly, fighting to keep the memory from affecting her too deeply. “The only innocents that day were the seventy people she slayed before finally being put down by templars. If I could go back and end the child before all that happened... if I could have understood the threat...” She shook her head, exhaling loudly thorough her nostrils. “Leon may have acted on his own today, but I would have done precisely the same thing in his place.”

Cullen set his jaw and nodded, trying to force himself back to the good soldier he was trained to be. Perhaps if he had been there, he could better understand Meredith's approval, but Leon's actions still seemed too reprehensible to accept. Ultimately, this was not his call. Ultimately, there was nothing he could do about the death of Vemara Petit.

He uttered a forced understanding and excused himself, feeling more unsettled after speaking with Meredith than he had before entering the room. The woman had grown harsher, more paranoid of lingering dangers, and some whispered that the weight of governing Kirkwall had pushed her to madness. Cullen had seen true madness, and while Meredith was not there yet, he couldn't deny the sliver of doubt that wormed its way into his mind for the first time.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Ebrisa had lost all sense of days some time ago, seeking as much sleep as she could get in the dark, windowless cell. She lay on cold, cobbled flooring in both reality and dream, unable to escape the hurt, loss, or shame in either realm. When she drifted into the Fade, Mother guided Ebrisa's head to her lap and stroked the golden strands of tangled hair while whispering condolences and words of comfort. Sympathy appeared from time to time, lending support as best she could and exchanging looks with Mother.

The pale blue spirit was unable to confirm Vemara's soul had passed on safely, but swore it had not yet twisted into something corrupted. Ebrisa took a small comfort in that, feeling her sorrow ease ever so slightly and carried the tiny bit of warmth with her when she was forced to wake up. The hard, unyielding floor pressed against her joints and made every possible position uncomfortable, but Ebrisa accepted the pain. She deserved it.

She had promised all those years ago when they fled from Decimus that she would keep the children safe, but she hadn't. She let Vemara down. She failed.

Footsteps echoed through the door, heavy and clanking instead of the gentle clicking of Mother's healed shoes, and the vaguely registered distinction clued Ebrisa into the fact she as awake at that moment. The steps stopped, and a muffled grinding noise drifted through the small gap under the cell door followed by a brief pause and a mild clang. They repeated – clank, grind, clang – slowly growing louder as the source drew nearer. When the heavy footfalls paused at her own door and the metal slat protested its drag through the housing, Ebrisa fully expected to hear the small view window slam shut like all the others had and the pattern to pick up again.

Instead, there was a long silence ended by a mumbled curse and proceeded by clipped, angry words. Ebrisa was somehow able to discern the irritation wasn't aimed at her, despite not registering a single bit of the conversation on the other side of her door. Her cell was unlocked and opened, more angry words, then the pattern of noises continued on in the opposite direction.

A single step into the cell and Ebrisa instantly recognized her visitor. His dominating presence filled the small space and nearly suffocated the mage after being alone for so long. She pushed herself up on her elbows, trying to watch the templar as he approached, but winced against the blinding light from the corridor behind him and had to turn away.

“Knight-Captain...” Ebrisa's voice sounded strange and raspy, making her doubt she had really been the one to speak at all.

He knelt beside her half a moment later, examining her darkened features, dirty clothes, and disheveled hair. His own features were impossible to make out as the mage was still trying to adjust to the new light, but she heard the disgust in his voice. “Maker's Breath...”

Ebrisa was torn between turning further away to hide her current state and leaning in closer to the tantalizing warmth emanating from the armored man. Just as she was about to give in, to once again display her weakness, Cullen rose to his feet. Perhaps he had seen her wavering and decided to remove temptation.

“Can you stand?” He offered her a hand and even though Ebrisa felt more like a bundle of washing than a person, she nodded just so he would touch her and impart some of that all too needed warmth. Cullen pulled her up easily and for a moment the mage thought she saw him smiling, but then her knees buckled under her own weight and she crumbled into his arms. “I thought you said you could stand,” Cullen mumbled, half chastising and half concerned.

Ebrisa's head swam from being upright after spending so long laying down, but she closed her eyes and pushed the discomfort aside, focusing on the warm and sturdy arms holding her. She heard a growl rumble in the back of Cullen's throat, his irritation once again audible, and Ebrisa prepared to be dropped back to the floor. His grip did shift, but instead of releasing the mage, Cullen readjusted his hold to accommodate her legs and swept Ebrisa up like he had after her Harrowing.

A startled protest began to tumble out of Ebrisa's straining throat, but Cullen ignored it and proceeded to leave the holding cells with the mage secured against his chest. Lessons were currently in session and the few people that did cross their path were forced to silence by the look of sheer contempt in full display on the knight-captain's face. Mage and templar alike feared that even the tiniest remark would set the simmering wrath to full boil and mark themselves as targets.

After the initial surprise wore off, Ebrisa relaxed and closed her eyes to better appreciate the templar's body heat, even blocked as it was by layers of plate and chain. A sense of peace washed over her, feeling more safe and protected than she could ever recall being, more than she had ever made Edan or Vemara feel.

The thought was like a stab in the gut and her eyes shot back open, shame prickling over her skin. Ebrisa was an adult – an enchanter – she shouldn't need protecting from anything, but Vemara... Vemara was still so young and untrained. Vemara had needed protecting, and Ebrisa hadn't been up to the task.

If Cullen noticed the shift in Ebrisa's mood, he didn't acknowledge it, remaining silent until they reached her quarters and quietly prompted her to open the door. He set her down on her bed, keeping his eyes averted and taking a very deliberate step away after doing so. Cullen moved around the room, finding a tin cup and filling it with water from the basin's pitcher. It was warm and meant for washing, but he knew Ebrisa couldn't be picky in her current state.

“Drink it slowly,” he instructed while pressing the hammered metal vessel into her hands. “Too fast and you'll end up retching it right back up.” Cullen didn't stand around to watch, trusting his warning would be enough to make her comply, and searched the mage's workbench for something that could assist her weakened state. He knew enough about healing herbs to recognize a few of the more common ingredients in health tonics by scent and after poking around for a bit, the templar crossed the room and handed a bottle he felt fairly confident about to Ebrisa. She frowned at the container, recognizing its contents as the base of a new recipe she was working out, but took a small sip regardless. When it became obvious she would drink no more, Cullen took the bottle back and returned it to the work station.

A minute passed, then two, and Ebrisa watched the tension in Cullen's posture increase from over the rim of her cup. He was angry, likely at her, but Ebrisa couldn't begin to figure out what she had done this time. She found it equally difficult to care, as her own self-directed ire had plenty of reasons to spare.

“I didn't believe the first enchanter when he told me today you were locked up.” Cullen's voice held none of the harsh tone Ebrisa had been expecting and he remained facing away, keeping his expression from view as he continued. “There was no record of it in the templar reports, but Senior Enchanter Alton filed one of his own to Orsino regarding... regarding Petit's death.”

Ebrisa hummed softly, acknowledging that she heard him, but was uncertain if she could speak about that day without crying again. Besides, if Cullen had read multiple reports about it, than surely there was nothing she could add anyways.

“I should have realized something had happened when you didn't attend her funeral pyre.” Cullen paused, turning his head just a bit to almost glance over his shoulder at the mage. “Sister Alema conducted the service on the eastern docks. It was rather nice.” The Chantry sister had also smelled strongly of whiskey and required more than a little assistance getting on and off the ferry, but that wasn't really a detail he needed to share.

“Vemara had an Andrastian funeral?” When Ebrisa's voice strained this time, it was with disbelief, so much so that it made Cullen finally turn and face her again. “She believed in the Creators. She wouldn't have wanted...”

“Oh...” Cullen mumbled, just as dumbfounded by the revelation as Ebrisa had been a moment ago. Despite never seeing the elf in the chapel, most just assumed her religious preference based on her proximity to Ebrisa. A woman so devote normally would have guided children to the same worship, but this woman let that child choose for herself and had supported the decision. This woman was not normal, but Cullen was already fully aware of that.

He cleared his throat to draw attention to the shift in topic. “We've sent word to Starkhaven's recovering Circle so that they might pass the news to Petit's mother. Many records were destroyed in that fire, but perhaps some of the templars there remember something.”

Ebrisa shook her head, idly swirling the water around in her cup. “The templars won't be able to find her.”

“You sound very certain of that...” She also sounded very depressed, a tone Cullen was not used to tinging her voice.

“They lived on the streets in the alienage. No home, no job, and no name to go off of.” Ebrisa looked up, feeling tired despite all the sleep she had been getting. “Vemara only ever called her _Mamae_.”

Cullen furrowed his brow, disliking the defeated way the mage was holding herself now. “The family name would be enough of a lead to start with.”

She did something unexpected then, she smiled softly and tilted her head. “Petit was never her name. When Vemara showed up, she was the youngest, shortest apprentice in the entire Circle and a templar was assigned to watch her while she adjusted. He called her _ma petite_ and the others picked up on it, not realizing it was Orlesian for _my little one_.” She laughed quietly, smile wavering. “With so many mimicking the pet name and failing to utilize the accent, _petite_ became _Petit._ I think that if Vemara ever knew people were calling her _little_ all the time, she would have resented the name.”

The struggling smile fell completely and Ebrisa returned her attention to the shimmering surface in her cup. “In the end, I guess Vemara lost everything. No wonder her soul has yet to move on...”

“Would you like to go the Chantry?” Cullen quietly offered. “Light a candle for her on the Remembrance Wall?”

The mage's shoulders raised and lowered as she sighed, the tired sound too quiet to actually hear. “That would only serve to comfort myself, and I am not the one needing or deserving of that at the moment.”

Silence fell over the room once again and stretched longer than it had the first time until Cullen finally broke it. “Since you weren't on the records, no one brought you food or drink while you were in isolation. We're in-between meals at the moment, but I will have something brought up for you.”

He left the room without further explanation, dozens of concerning thoughts circling in his head that he managed to push back in favor of addressing matters he could actually do something about. He would need to adjust the duties of cell guard rotation to include checking every cell, find out who had been working the morning Ebrisa was dropped off and berate them for not recording it, and he would have to track down the newly promoted Leon and explain the downside of chain-of-command. When an officer gives orders, the subordinates' mistakes are the officer's mistakes.

The idea that Knight-Lieutenant Leon hadn't even been an officer for a week and would already receive a glaring mark in his service record made Cullen smirk in satisfaction. He was powerless to strip the man of rank, but he could keep track of Leon's offenses. Given the older man's behavior, it shouldn't be long before Meredith would be forced to act against the new officer if for no other reason than to discourage others from following his terrible example.

Cullen could do something to ensure Leon was eventually punished, but he knew that wouldn't help Ebrisa in the least. According to Alton's account, she had been right there when Vemara was killed, she had seen everything, and was prevented from doing anything. Ebrisa's behavior and comments left no room for doubt that she blamed herself for the child's death and Cullen had been unable to find the words to convince her otherwise, so he left. He was at a loss for what to do, especially since things had been so tense and awkward between them, and was uncertain if she would even accept any help he did try to offer. After all, he had so harshly refused _her_ last offer of aid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit sick and have been forbidden from writing until I get better to ensure I get enough rest, but I am currently working on post-game stuff! One one hand its all 'oh, games over, must be almost done' but then 'hey, theres three years that can be covered' so...  
> I don't know where I was going with that...  
> Did I mention I was sick? I'm not super coherent at the moment. Thank goodness this chapter was already typed up.


	32. In Uthenera

Despite the heavy weight still pulling on her limbs and heart, Ebrisa resumed her duties to the best of her ability after only a single day of resting in her room. Bernice was ecstatic to have her junior back and paid little attention to how quiet the younger woman was because Ebrisa managed to complete each task on time. The senior enchanter had lost so many peers and pupils over the years that she had become more or less desensitized to the notion and the thought never occurred to her that the blonde woman silently cleaning beakers in-between lessons was in any sort of pain.

When Ebrisa stumbled up the Wounded Coast to gather venom the following Sunday, Leopold instantly picked up on the solemn air surrounding her and rushed the mage before either of the templar escorts could do anything. The wyvern bent his head over her shoulder, nudging Ebrisa's back encouragingly. It took her a moment to figure out the action, but once she recognized the beast's version of a hug, Ebrisa wrapped her arms around Leopold's thick neck and cried against his scaly skin.

 

A week came and went without any change in Ebrisa's behavior and before she knew it was time to visit Leopold once again. It was a younger templar, the normally chatty Ser Garret, that came to fetch her and the two met up with Carver in the entry yard before heading out. The trek across the harbor and up the coast was similar to just about every excursion before with the mage being respectfully quiet as the templars watched for trouble. When they drew close to the cave, the heavy silence was shattered with a multitude of voices arguing up the path.

“What do you mean you can't play it?” Merrill huffed, unusually irritated. “I described the instrument to you and everything!”

“You said _its got strings and a round part with a neck,_ ” Anders shot back. “That sounded like a lute.”

Hawke snorted. “You can't play that one either.”

“Of course I can.”

Fenris folded his arms and leveled a look at the blonde. “About as well as you write.”

Anders bristled at the intended insult, shooting a glare right back. “How would you know? You can't exactly read well enough to understand the intricacies of proper literature.”

“I know enough to dispute your manifesto as _proper literature_.”

Sebastian stepped in when it became clear Hawke wasn't going to. “This is not the time nor place for your squabbling. Might you both find the decency to put this argument on hold? They should be arriving any time now.”

“Too late,” Varric sighed, motioning to the edge of the clearing just as the Gallows occupants approached.

Aveline nudged the Rivaini beside her. “You were supposed to be look out.”

“Whoops,” Isabela muttered. “Got a little distracted, I guess. There's a reason I never spent much time in the crow's nest.”

Carver let out an exasperated breath and shook his head. “Well this is off to a fantastic start. Nice job, everyone.”

“No, this is a _terrible_ start,” Merrill argued, pacing across the grass with a hand over her eyes. “I couldn't get anyone from the clan to help – even after returning the arulin'holm – and now no one can play the bel'ranen!” The elf stopped her circular steps and dropped her arms, looking around the wide bit of grass they were occupying. “I should have known this wasn't going to work. I've just been having horrid luck with anything remotely Dalish recently.”

Ebrisa followed the elf's remorseful gaze to the earlier disputed instrument resting in the clearing. It looked remarkably like a harp, though considerably smaller than what she was used to. The pillar curved out more and bore the shape of a rearing deer of some sort carved into it with long, twisting antlers forming into the neck. Ebrisa gently moved past the others and knelt before the instrument, plucking experimentally at the strings once she was close enough. Without further explanation, Ebrisa sat back on her legs and tilted the Dalish harp against her shoulder, picking at the strings again to figure out notes and adjusting to the spacing.

Once she was comfortable enough, Ebrisa looked back up at the tattooed mage and offered a weak smile. “I think I have this figured out, Mistress Merrill. Do you have sheet music or something for me to follow?”

“There's this,” Anders answered slowly, producing a sheet with dots on very uneven lines.

Ebrisa looked it over, working out the fairly repetitive tune despite the untrained hand that penned it. She played it a little, checking with the others that it sounded right.

“Yes, that's how it goes,” Merrill mumbled. “But you shouldn't have to-”

Hawke cut her off, smacking her hands together in a loud clap. “Okay! That was the only issue, right? Everything else is set?”

“I do believe it is,” Aveline answered for the group. “Into formation, everyone. Let's move.” She ushered the others into a semi circle, giving the newly appointed musician enough space to not feel crowded.

They all faced a small hole and a pile of stacked stones with Merrill standing beside it. She lit a candle, shielding it from the wind with her hand, and looked incredibly nervous. The elven mage took a breath as the group settled, then smiled gently at the blonde still resting on the ground and raised her head.

“Thank you all for gathering here. Today, we lay to rest one taken far too young. She was not _of the People_ , but she did believe as we do. It took much courage to try and worship the Creators in a place so against elvhen beliefs, but she did try.” Merrill took a knee and placed the candle on a wide stone set above the hole. “Da'len's da'len. Vemara.”

Ebrisa felt her mouth drop just a little as she finally realized what was going on.

“We return our fallen to the earth.” Merrill did not move and remained silent for several stretched out minutes. “ _Carver,_ ” she whispered over her shoulder, reminding the templar of his part. He jumped slightly, then quickly removed the satchel Ebrisa had failed to notice earlier and handed it to the elf. Merrill waited until he returned to the group, then reached into the bag and pulled out a bound stack of parchment stained in drops of ink and covered in simple doodles.

Ebrisa bit back a gasp, recognizing Vemara's class notes. She hadn't thought there were any possessions left from the girl.

Merrill set the notebook in the hole and drew the displaced dirt back in place until the hole was all but gone. She reached back into the satchel and withdrew a partially sprouted flower bulb wrapped in burlap. The elf peeled back the woven fibers and gently cupped the mound of earth supported by the exposed roots as she rested that too in the dirt above the book and secured it in place. “Without life, there is no death. Without death, there is no life.” Merrill took a stone from the pile and set it at the edge of the recently filled hole, then stood up and took several steps back. The semicircle moved, Hawke leading, and one by one they selected a stone and placed it beside Merrill's, slowly encircling the small mound of dirt.

They waited quietly and respectfully as Merrill continued on, reciting Dalish rites and prayers with words none of them understood. At last, she seemed to have finished and turned around to face the group. “Whenever I was unwell as a child, my mother would sing for me and it helped me feel better. Music can be its own sort of healing magic, and so there is one more thing I would like to do, with the aid of a much better singer. Please don't hold this performance against me too much.”

Sebastian moved over to stand beside the elf, softly reminding her that the group had suffered far more indignities than an out of tune song. Merrill nodded, though still uneasy, and motioned for Ebrisa to start playing. The blonde cleared her throat and focused on the strings, bringing the notes on paper to life while Sebastian and Merrill began a duet of a song Ebrisa was slightly familiar with.

_“_ _Oh, Small One, your time has come._

_We are filled with sorrow,_

_But weary eyes need thorough_

_Resting._

_The heart grays and beats slow._

_In Waking Sleep lies freedom._

 

_We'll keep on singing._

_We'll share the stories._

_We'll laugh while crying._

_One more day loving.”_

 

This was the Dalish eulogy Feynriel had taught her what felt like ages ago, but not in the elven language like he had used. Merrill had performed much of the service in the original tongue, but for this she had gone through the effort to not only use Common, but teach it to another. When the pair repeated the second half, Ebrisa found herself joining them in a very tight and shaking voice. Her fingers faltered on the strings and clutched the frame of the harp, the instrument now supporting her more than she supported it.

Vemara wouldn't have wanted her to be sad forever, she would want Ebrisa to continue living as she had before. She'd want her to smile and laugh, remembering the happy moments, but also hold on to the sadder ones. Vemara wouldn't be forgotten, but Ebrisa shouldn't dwell on her death. She should celebrate her life and all the memories – good and bad – that made up the time they had spent together.

When the singing stopped, she couldn't bring herself to meet anyone's eyes and stared straight ahead at the small pseudo grave. These people were all so busy, each with a hundred important things to do, but they took the time to not only attend, but prepare a funeral for a child already laid to rest by the Chantry. Her heart skipped a beat and somehow Ebrisa knew Vemara was finally at peace, having received the kind of service she wanted. The feeling made her break down and Ebrisa tried to hide her crying face behind the harp's engraved soundbox.

“I don't believe this was part of the plan,” Fenris muttered, visibly uncomfortable with the woman's display of emotions.

“I really hope it wasn't,” Aveline agreed, just as apprehensive.

Ebrisa wiped one of her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to stem the flow of tears. “Why would you do this? None of you even knew Vemara.”

“That's true, puppy love.” Isabela knelt beside the mage, wiping at her other cheek. “But we know you. You wouldn't be this distraught for just anyone.”

Anders checked his pockets for something relatively clean and handed a linen square to the pirate. “I did meet her once, when your group first got to Kirkwall and you were injured. That little girl was so worried and the second my back was turned, she climbed up on the pallet to hold you. It was obvious she loved you very much.”

“Easy, Blondie. You'll make her get all weepy again.” Varric shook his head, the disapproving tone of his voice betrayed by the light smile on his face. “The point of this was to let Sunshine say goodbye to her friend in a way that both of them could find peace. Tears aren't meant to last forever.”

“That's right,” Isabela sighed with feigned dramatics as she dabbed the simple handkerchief across the blonde woman's face. “If you get back to the Gallows with red, puffy eyes, then your knight-captain will think this plan of his went completely sideways.”

Ebrisa focused back on the smirking woman before her, a number of emotions stumbling over themselves to take dominance of her thoughts. Confusion won out and the mage pursed her lips slightly as the tears trickled to a stop.

Why would Cullen think to have a second funeral for Vemara, let alone go through the trouble of finding an individual who could actually perform one? He had so little free time as it was and to spend any of it away from the Gallows to do more work was baffling. There was no benefit he could gain from this, no reward from the templars or Chantry, so why?

Behind the questions in her mind, a string of quiet, hopeful thoughts began to push through. Maybe Cullen hadn't settled on this idea for Vemara, hadn't decided to put in more effort for the templars, hadn't sought out a secondary service for benefit of the Chantry. Maybe, just maybe, Cullen had done this for her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, basically, a Dalish harp is a Celtic harp. "bel'ranen" is a made up word, but I still tried to have it sort of make sense. BEL means 'many', and RENAN means 'voice'. I couldn't find a word for 'sound', so I just switched the vowels in renan to create one. 'many-sounds' seemed like an alright name for a multi stringed musical instrument, especially since I couldn't find a word for 'string'
> 
> You will learn that I put a lot of time into naming objects and people in my stories. I'll point out more as they pop up.


	33. Contact

Several weeks passed and with each of Cullen's blatant efforts to avoid her, Ebrisa's hopeful thoughts became less and less likely and she began to feel foolish for ever having them. Even if Cullen _had_ thought of the funeral service for her benefit, that could mean any number of things ranging from wanting to help her move on to simply needing her to act in the present again. Ebrisa was a junior enchanter and had duties to the Circle that needed attending, so it made perfect sense that others would be concerned with her ability to do so effectively.

More time went by, more suffocating silences and forced responses, and Ebrisa was convinced the knight-captain's actions had been purely practical. The realization had her combing back through every previous encounter and conversation with the templar officer, picking them apart and reducing the once precious memories to the most basic level. Cullen had been acting in the best interests of the organizations that held his loyalty, and Ebrisa had been acting like a fool.

 

First Day came and went without much fanfare and almost two months since the Dalish funeral, Ser Garret was once again leading the blonde from the Gallows. The other templar with them was female and had a still healing scar across her nose, which she had flatly refused to get magically taken care of. This wasn't because she took issue with the healers or mages, Ser Marian simply thought the scar would make her look cooler. Garret and Marian worked a great deal of assignments together, having joined the templars around the same time, and were often heard laughing in the dining hall.

The small group had crossed the docks, heading for the city gates that would lead them to the Wounded Coast, when Garret let out a loud, overly dramatic groan and brought a hand over his eyes. “Oh, no! This is _terrible_!”

Ebrisa jumped at the man's sudden cry, but Marian rushed to his side. “Ser Garret,” the templar called out, oddly enunciating each word, “what ever has happened?”

He drew his hand down over his face, brushing the gauntlet across his well groomed beard. “I have a very important errand in Hightown that should have been done yesterday. It completely slipped my mind!” Garret hung his head in shame.

“You fool!” Marian struck him with an open hand, not very hard or very loudly, but it still sent the man to the ground. “One more mark on your record this quarter and Meredith will have you on sewer patrol for a month! How could you have been so careless?”

The mage stood awkwardly behind her escorts, watching the dark-haired duo make sweeping arm movements in exaggerated displays of distress. While true that she did not know these templars very well, Ebrisa still found their behavior rather odd for any member of the Order. “Pardon, Ser Garret,” she began hesitantly but somehow loud enough for the templars to hear over their noisy worry. “Would it be possible to still run your errand this morning? Leopold needn't be attended this very instant.”

Garret and Marian stilled, exchanging a barely noticeable look, then turned to the mage with wide grins. “You know, I just might.” The man hopped up to his feet, his earlier bout of terror and shame completely forgotten.

“To Hightown!” Marian pointed enthusiastically towards the stairs and the group was off, moving a little faster than normal.

They made it through Lowtown in a decent amount of time and cut through the upper city on a familiar path. Bells began ringing through the air and the templars picked up the pace, Marian grabbing hold of the mage's wrist to ensure they didn't loose her. Garret had not spoken of this errand of his, but it was now abundantly clear it had something to do with the Chantry and the group rushed to make it into the building before the service began.

Despite the layers of clothing and armor and their quick pace, none of them tripped or stumbled and they made it safely into the Chantry with a little time to spare. Garret scanned the area, then shot Marian a few discreet hand gestures as Ebrisa continued to catch her breath. “Dang it,” Garret sighed once he had Ebrisa's attention again, snapping his fingers from one shoulder to the other. “Looks like the mother I needed to speak with is part of the service. Guess we'll have to wait for it to be over.”

“We could at least sit down,” Marian grumbled, earning a brief scowl from the man. She straightened quickly and cleared her throat. “I mean, _oooh_ , I sure am tired from all that walking.”

Ebrisa furrowed her brow and looked between the pair, wondering if they had eaten something spoiled at breakfast. These knights were behaving too oddly for this to be normal. “Might we be able to rest on a pew and observe the service?”

“Excellent idea that was completely yours, Trevelyan!” Marian smirked and took hold of the mage's wrist once again. “I see a spot right over here that would be just great.” She dragged Ebrisa to a mostly empty pew and ushered her on past several other worshipers and prospective seats, claiming none of them would be enough space for their group. When Ebrisa was finally allowed to sit, Marian urged her to scoot over several times. “Sorry, this armor just makes us so bulky.” She whispered. “Scooch some more, will ya?”

Ebrisa complied, shifting to the right little by little across the worn bench until her shoulder bumped into someone's arm. She recoiled in mild mortification, turning to the man to plead forgiveness. “I am so terribly sorry, messere. I didn't intend to-” The rest of the apology died on her lips as she stared at the stranger that wasn't one. Cullen stared back at her, just as dumbfounded by the encounter as the mage.

She had never seen the knight-captain in plain clothes before, which was the main reason her mind had taken a moment too long to recognize him, and curiosity got the better of her. At least Ebrisa told herself it was curiosity. The shirt and breeches were simple, but the mage paid them little mind as she drew her eyes over the man. His armor always made him look so large – especially with those massive pauldrons – and Ebrisa found herself taking careful note of how wide his shoulders actually were, how broad his chest was, the shape of his legs and where his knee bent, but most of all the true size of his hands now that they were free of gauntlets. She had wondered about those hands for some time – pondered how short he kept his nails, speculated if the constant rub of leather had worn the skin smooth or if hair still lingered, curious to know how warm they were.

Cullen was able to find his voice first, snapping the mage to attention and incidentally forcing her eyes back to his own. “Ebrisa, what are you doing here?”

Her throat felt tight, but she somehow managed to answer. “Ser Garret had an urgent matter to attend to, so we came to the Chantry.” Ebrisa turned to face her escorts, expecting them to further explain the matter to their superior, but instead found of them sitting on the very edge of the empty section. Marian had a boot propped up against the support of the pew in front of them with both her arms resting on the back of her own seat. Garret had his arms folded, scowling at anyone that even attempted to get close or take the supposedly vacant seats beside them. It was odd that the two would be sitting so far away when they had practically forced Ebrisa into Cullen's lap.

“If Ser Garret had any sort of standing business, he wouldn't have been assigned wyvern duty,” Cullen said with a hint of skepticism, leaning forward to see around the mage and better regard the templar pair. “Those two have always been a little... strange.”

“At least they make perfect sense to each other,” Ebrisa hummed back, earning a soft chuckle from Cullen as he returned to his previous position.

Or perhaps it was only the pew creaking and her hopeful imagination getting the better of her. The tightness in her throat returned, seeping down into her chest and stomach. She was still sitting far too close to the man and spent Maker knew how long _ogling_ him just a few moments before. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly, lowering her head. “I should give you space so you may worship in peace.”

She pressed her palms to the bench, preparing to scoot back towards her escorts and forcing herself to remember everything she had come to terms with over the past several months. Cullen did not see her as she saw him – she was not his friend or confidant. She was just a nosy busybody that couldn't read people nearly as well as she thought.

“You aren't bothering me.”

That had Ebrisa turning her head so sharply it made her dizzy.

Cullen held her gaze for only a moment before lowering his eyes and studying the wood grain of the pew in front of him. “However, if you require more privacy, then I won't hold you here. I know this is your first time being in the Chantry since Petit... since Vemara...”

“It is.” She relaxed into the seat, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “She's at peace now because of the Dalish funeral. Thank you for thinking of it.”

He tensed as though caught and Ebrisa felt a small thrill at being able to see the muscles in his arm shift with the action. “I didn't – that is – I don't know what you're...” Cullen paused, then sighed quietly. “Which Hawke told you?”

“It was actually Captain Isabela.”

The man let out a mumbled plea for mercy and darted his eyes to the coffered ceiling. “She's not a _real_ captain, you know.”

Ebrisa smiled a bit more, feeling the insufferable hope rising up once again. Maybe she had been wrong about Cullen's motives, maybe she had been right about them, but she knew that if she didn't ask now she would never find out. “Why did you go to the Champion for help with that?”

“I knew the Dalish clan wouldn't aid an outsider and that Hawke had an associate who could assist, or at the very least persuade the clan to assist.” Cullen rested his hands squarely on his thighs in an attempt to look more confident than he felt. “I would have gone to the elf directly, but templars aren't very welcomed in the alienage and I didn't know which home was hers.”

“That's not what I'm asking,” she gently prodded. If she pushed too much, it could all backfire, but she had to know. “Why did you convince them to hold a service for Vemara?”

“It didn't take much convincing...” he mumbled, still trying his best to avoid her eyes and her question.

“Whatever the reason, I promise I can handle it.” She felt her resolve begin to waver, but she had to know. “Just tell me...”

Cullen raised a hand to his neck and rubbed at the building tension in his muscles, his stiff posture finally breaking. He released a quiet breath and dropped his gaze even lower, focusing on nothing as he gathered his thoughts. “We handled every single aspect of that situation completely wrong. You had already calmed Vemara. Things shouldn't have escalated from there, but they did. We did everything wrong, but it was like I was the only one who could see that, and I saw it too late. We didn't do right by her...”

The tightening in Ebrisa's chest worsened, crushing in painfully and making it difficult to breathe. She had suspected there was a logical explanation for Cullen's extra effort, but to hear it was guilt over the Templar Order's actions? To know it was Cullen's character and sense of morality? This was simply who Cullen was, so why did that hurt so much to hear?

Why had she let herself hope for something more?

Ebrisa said she could handle the answer, so she took a deep breath as discreetly as she could and nodded in understanding. “Yes, well, you made it up to her in the end. Did you provide the notebook and flower as well?”

He rested his hands beside him on the bench, his fanned out fingers just close enough to Ebrisa's for her to feel the barest hint of heat radiating from them. “When Merrill mentioned burying and planting trees, I figured I had to find _something_. Class notes didn't seem very appropriate, but it was unfortunately the only option. As for the plant... I hope you aren't cross that I pilfered it from one of the yards.” Cullen chanced a quick glance at the mage, as though to check for any trace of anger. “It seemed fitting, actually, to plant flowers you nurtured with the child you nurtured.”

She hadn't considered it at the time, but that really did make a sweet sort of sense now that Cullen mentioned it. He had put thought into many aspects of the Dalish service, but something still didn't add up. Ebrisa leaned forward, trying to catch his eye once again. “If you went through all that trouble, then why didn't you go to the funeral?”

Cullen looked at her briefly from the corner of his eye, then away again and clenched his jaw monumentally, as though biting back the words he truly wanted to say. “I just... I felt that if I were there, then you wouldn't be able find the peace you needed. I thought if you knew I was involved, you might reject it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I pushed you away when you tried to help me.” He turned to her then, finally looking at her fully and revealing the faint coloring on his cheeks. “The problem I have, its rather embarrassing and I overreacted. I was certain I messed up things between us from the way I acted – have been acting – and I didn't want my own foolishness to interfere with your mourning. The templars needed to do right by Vemara, but I needed to do right by you.”

The silence that settled between them was quickly filled with the acoustically aided voice of Mother Clara giving a sermon, forcing both blondes to realize that they had been talking well into the Chantry service. Had there been anyone sitting beside them, they surely would have been shushed early into the conversation and never gotten to the full answer that had rendered Ebrisa speechless. Cullen had acted to correct the templars' mistakes, but also his personal ones. He admitted there was something between himself and Ebrisa, something important enough to try and fix. These weren't the actions of a man concerned with the Circle's productivity.

Something he had tried to gloss over popped back into Ebrisa's head and forced her to find her tongue. She leaned in, whispering now that she knew the service was underway. “You said _have_. Your problem persists?”

Cullen cleared his throat and broke eye contact, face coloring further. “It... yes. Not as frequently, but still rather... intensely.”

Ebrisa placed a hand to his linen covered arm and he flinched away from the touch, realizing too late the mixed signals he was sending. She mumbled another apology for another thing she didn't have to and returned her palm to the bench, forcing her gaze to her own knees.

“Ebrisa,” he began softly, trying to piece together the appropriate response. “If my problem was _anything_ else, I swear I would confide in you about it.” Cullen shifted his hand, moving it hesitantly until his fingers brushed over her own, nearly retracting them as he second-guessed himself. “I... I _do_ trust you.” He took in a nervous, shaky breath, then increased the whisper of a touch to full contact and rested his hand on hers.

Ebrisa jumped slightly in surprise and muffled a noise that even she couldn't recognize as Cullen's bare, warm palm pressed against the back of her hand. He eased his calloused fingers until they curled around her smooth ones, holding them in what many would consider a comradely way. For Ebrisa, it was much more than that. There were no layers, no barriers between this simple touch, and that alone made it anything but simple. This was the first time she had felt Cullen's skin, felt his warmth, felt him just as vulnerable as she was. Her heart began racing in her chest and breathing became a conscious effort that required all of her attention.

“Can things go back to how they were before?” Cullen mumbled, embarrassment and hope crashing together awkwardly in his voice. “I have missed playing with you.” His next words were rushed and sounded slightly higher in pitch, as though he panicked. “ _In chess_ , I mean.”

Ebrisa couldn't find the spare mental effort to reply, so she simply curled her fingers and squeezed Cullen's hand in response. She heard him exhale, but could not share in his relief, because she couldn't go back to how things were before. Something had changed inside her – for good or ill, she didn't know – and she could never change back. Maybe it was because Vemara was gone, maybe it was because she knew Cullen did think of her as more than just another charge, and maybe it was because he was still holding her hand.

Hoping had not been foolish, things could not be the same, and she didn't have to wonder about his hands anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have inserted extra purple Hawkes into my story. This idea more or less came from a comic I saw that had Hawke as a male and female twin set, both of them goofs and both of them insufferable for poor Carver.  
> Garret and Marian are comic relief, but they ship Cullen and Ebrisa super hard! This is the pair that smirked after the Qunari fight in the Gallows when Cullen dragged Ebrisa to the healers and may or may not have been keeping notes on the pair that may or may not be relevant later on in the story.


	34. Desperation

It had started with Leopold's apparent love of the Dalish harp. Merrill told Ebrisa she could keep the instrument and store it in the cave, explaining that she had gotten it rather cheaply. Apparently, Master Ilen's apprentice had connected the halla decorated frame to a soundbox engraved with Sylaise's markings instead of Ghilan'nain or Andruil, and the explanation had only served to raise more questions.

“You see, da'len,” Merrill began as though addressing an actual child, “Ghilan'nain is the mother of the halla and Andruil is the goddess of the hunt. Those two Creators can both be associated with the halla without any stretch of the imagination. Sylaise, however, is the goddess of the hearth, the protector of the home, and teacher of healing magic. It makes no sense to place a halla with her.” No self-respecting Dalish would be caught dead playing the mismatched instrument, but for a shemlen like Ebrisa, it was perfect.

Merrill began bringing sheet music for Ebrisa to play for the wyvern every week, tagging along with any of the others that wished to visit with the enchanter while she tended the wyvern. Ebrisa picked up on the tunes surprisingly quickly and the elf started teaching her the lyrics that went with them, delighted with the fluid ease the blonde repeated the foreign words back. When Ebrisa expressed an interest in learning more of the words, the self-exiled Dalish felt like the Keeper she was never going to be.

 

“If _elgar_ means _spirit_ , and _elgara_ means _sun_ , then does that mean you view the sun as a sort of spirit?” Ebrisa glanced at Merrill briefly over her shoulder before returning her attention to Leopold. The wyvern was laying peacefully on his stomach, already having supplied the week's venom, and remained silent as Ebrisa moved the soft bristled brush in long strokes along his scales. He did not need to be groomed, but the mage had discovered that the action was enjoyable for Leopold and since she couldn't bring herself to give the massive lizard some other creature to consume as a treat, she felt this was a much more appropriate thank you.

“In a way, I suppose,” Merrill hummed, rocking back slightly and pressing a finger to her chin. “In the beginning, there was only the Sun and the Land. The Sun became curious about the Land and bowed his head towards her body. At the spot where they touched, Elgar'nan was created.”

Ebrisa furrowed her brow, pulling up her growing vocabulary. “ _Nan_ means _vengeance_ , doesn't it? So Elgar'nan is a _Spirit of Vengeance_?”

“Well done, da'len.” Merrill grinned widely, pride swelling in her chest. “Elgar'nan, The Eldest of The Sun, He Who Overthrew His Father, is the Creator of Fatherhood and Vengeance. His name speaks of his role, like many of the Creators.” She pointed to the marking on her face, grin still in place. “Can you guess what _Falon'Din_ rules over?”

The enchanter paused her brushing so she could think. “ _Falon_ is _friend_... and _din_...” She mulled over the possibilities. “ _Not, isn't, someone who is not..._ The Dalish wouldn't happen to have a god of _No Friends_ , I suppose? That seems a terribly sad and lonely figure to pay homage to.”

The elf laughed, waving her hand in an attempt to banish the bubbling mirth. “By the Dread Wolf, no! There is another meaning for _din_ you are forgetting.”

The blonde turned to the excitable guest, furrowing her brow as she tried to recall the other word. It came to her suddenly and a quiet _ah_ passed her lips. “Falon'Din is your god of the dead.”

Merrill nodded, cheery smile never faltering.

“But why were you pointing to your face?”

The elf thumped her fist lightly against her forehead, as thought recalling something she should have mentioned a long time ago. “You see these tattoos? They are called _vallaslin_ and have special meanings amongst my people. They represent our loyalty to the Creators, affirm our belief. When we come of age, we choose our vallaslin and mine are that of Falon'Din.”

Again, Ebrisa was confused. “Why did you choose to follow death?”

Merrill plopped down beside the other mage, patting her head. “Because, da'len, Falon'Din did not just guide the dead through the Beyond. Before, when elves were immortal, he would lead elders through _uthenera_ where they would learn the secrets of dreams and return to the People with newfound knowledge. It is a keeper's duty to remember, and I want to teach the Dalish the things we have forgotten and lost. Things we can only find now beyond the Veil.”

Leopold growled softly, displeased at being ignored for so long when his time with the enchanter was so limited, and Ebrisa giggled out an apology as she continued brushing his scales. She turned to the elf, a new found respect brightening her expression. “That is a very noble task you've given yourself, Mistress Merrill.”

The elf blushed faintly. “Thank you, da'len. Most do not see it that way.” She paused, opening and closing her mouth several times as she began to speak but stopped herself. Finally, she pushed forward. “Since my people are so against this path I've taken, I may never get to be called this... but, maybe, I mean... could you call me _hahren_?”

Ebrisa giggled again, returning her attention to the wyvern. “You want me to call you _elder_? We can't be that different in age, surely.”

“Its not just meant for, well, for an elderly person,” Merrill huffed in embarrassment. “It also refers to respected teachers and story tellers in the clan, oh but that does sound rather arrogant of me to ask, now doesn't it? Just never mind, it was a silly idea.”

“So does that mean you aren't calling me _da'len_ because you think of me as a child?”

The elf stuttered out an apology. “Oh, I didn't even think about how demeaning that must be for you. I'm so sorry da'le- um. Oh, that's going to take some adjusting.”

Ebrisa shook her head. “If _hahren_ is like a teacher, then _da'len_ is like a pupil, correct? If that's the case, then there is no need for adjusting, Hahren Merrill.” She leaned in just a little, lowering her voice. “I am actually rather pleased to have another title to use with you. Captain Isabela winks at me every time I say _mistress_ and its been making me increasingly uncomfortable.” Merrill laughed, ecstatic to have her silly request so easily fulfilled, and continued on with the rest of the lesson.

Ser Paxly stood beside the other templar guard at the mouth of the cavern, shaking his head in disbelief at the conversation he had just overheard. As far as mages went, Trevelyan was a very righteous woman. This elf, this _apostate_ was spending too much time with the enchanter and if measures were not taken soon, the Circle could lose even their most devote mage.

~~~~~~~~~

It was complete and utter nonsense, Cullen knew it was, but Meredith had taken Paxly's concerned ramblings at face value. According to the younger templar, the _Dalish witch that stalked behind the Champion_ was using her elven magic to corrupt Ebrisa. For what, Paxly wasn't certain, but he speculated it had to do with plotting to undermine Meredith all together and take down the Circle from within.

Any who knew the Dalish mage were well aware that she cared little for things that would not further her people. Still, the templar leader took the concern under advisement and increased the size of Ebrisa's weekly escort and forbade any of the Champion's apostate friends from entering the wyvern's cave while the enchanter was performing her duty. Anders was immensely perturbed – not that he visited much anyways – but Merrill was devastated. She tried hiding in the cavern before the templars arrived so she could still interact with the Circle mage, but the armored men quickly caught on and she took to leaving loose sheets of vocabulary lessons with her other friends to deliver instead. This meant Ebrisa had to learn the elvish alphabet so she could actually _read_ the lessons, but she didn't seem to mind the extra work.

Still, Meredith applauded Paxly's foresight and observations and – once again against Cullen's recommendation – promoted the templar. Most of the officers now shared many of the knight-commander's views and the Circle was loosing its checks and balances, having too few people in positions of power that did not share Meredith's mind on all counts. Stricter rules came down on the mages, templars flung slurs and insults at their charges without care, and even Orsino was shown little respect. The Gallows were becoming more and more hostile as the year went on until finally some could take it no longer.

 

With the increased patrols and overall templar presence in the city and surrounding area, the Gallows was bringing in more apostates than ever before. They did not come quietly and often times the mage would need to be restrained to collect the needed blood for their phylactery. Orsino refused to assist with the magical element of making the vials, so it fell to whatever enchanter was available. Few of them, even amongst the more senior mages, had the same resolve to so openly defy the knight-commander and silently complied.

Orsino – or any mage for that matter – no longer being trusted in the vault, Meredith confiscated his key and gave it to Cullen. She usually took great satisfaction in securing new phylacteries, but this day she was far too busy and handed her own set to the knight-captain as well. Cullen could not enter the vault on his own as a security measure but before he had the chance to seek out any available templars, two knights nearly tripped over themselves to volunteer. Both men were newly recruited and eager to please – Taft a bit further along in life than those who normally joined up, and Samuel always following him like a shadow.

Not one to turn away volunteers and simply wanting to get the assignment completed as soon as possible, Cullen nodded consent and handed the small crate of newly constructed phylacteries to Taft. The two knights shared a brief look, then quickly fell in line behind the officer as he ventured into the deepest dungeons of the Gallows. They passed the holding cells, taking turns that crossed corridors leading to similar areas long since converted for storage as Cullen unlocked the various gates in their way.

Samuel made awkward small talk the deeper they went, trying to alleviate the growing silence. Normally Cullen would instruct the recruit to be quiet, but the boy was obviously uneased and he took pity. “That's a lot of locks,” Samuel commented dumbly, voice shaking slightly as he watched the keyring in the officer's hand.

“The vault is likely the most secure location in all the Gallows,” Cullen replied uninterestedly. He motioned briefly to the wall, directing attention to the stream of runes carved into its surface. “These wards run the entire length of this corridor and prevent magic from being cast.” There was something similar in his old Circle, though the repository that ran parallel to that vault provided a blood mage a backdoor and enabled his escape. Why Jowan hadn't destroyed more than just his own phylactery, Cullen would never know. The engraved wards were one of the first suggestions he'd made to Meredith when he arrived in Kirkwall and possibly what earned his initial promotion.

“Doors too sturdy to break with brute force and magic rendered useless,” Samuel mumbled, once again shooting a hidden look at Taft. “So the only way to get to the phylacteries is with the keys.”

Cullen hummed in confirmation, pulling out Orsino's confiscated set as they approached the final door. “We don't have the luxury of a secondary location for harrowed mage phylacteries, so we must be extra vigilant.” The tumblers in the dual locks clanked loudly as he twisted each key, the heavy door groaning against its own weight when Cullen yanked it open. He waved Taft inside, holding back a tired sigh. “Just set the crate on the table there. We've no time to organize the new additions at the moment.”

The older man moved into the room, hesitating in the center of it and tightening his grip on the wooden container. There was a moment of complete silence, then he threw the small crate at a shelf, the vials contained in both shattering with a series of crashes. Cullen recovered from the shock quickly, hand moving to his sword in warning as he prepared to yell at the other man. Something solid connected with the back of his head and made him see spots of light, but he did not falter and continued to withdraw his weapon, though a little more sluggish than normal.

“Shit!” Samuel panicked, retracting his dagger from his failed attempt at knocking out the officer. The recruit shifted targets and plunged the small blade through a gap in the armor and upward into Cullen's back while Taft continued to knock over the lighter cases and shelves that weren't bolted down.

Breaking glass echoed in Cullen's head, drowning out the sound of his own sword clattering noisily to the stone flooring. His senses were strangely heightened – the shattering of the phylacteries, the smell of blood, the clearly defined look of determination on Taft's face, the taste of copper, and the agonizing sensation of the blade embedding in his flesh. Cullen had been in countless fights before and taken more than his fair share of hits, but he had usually seen those coming. He'd be filled with adrenaline, anticipating the enemy's strike and shrugging off blows to focus on the bigger picture of the battle. But this was not expected. This was not a battle. This wasn't his enemy.

“Samuel, what are you doing?!” Taft shouted, finally noticing that had happened when Cullen dropped to a knee and reached feebly for the gushing wound. “You were just supposed to knock him out so we could lock him inside!”

“I-I know!” Samuel defended, hand and dagger shaking and coated in fresh blood. “The knight-captain didn't go down, he was going to attack! I- I just – I didn't mean to!”

Taft swept an arm along one last row of vials, sending them crashing to the floor on his way out. “Lets get out of here. We won't have much time.” He cast Cullen a quick, apologetic look before twisting Meredith's keys from the door. “I'm sorry this had to happen, knight-captain, but I didn't join the templars to abuse mages. I joined the Order to help people, and the Gallows doesn't do that anymore.” The keys finally secured, Taft grabbed Samuel's arm and pulled the still rattled man back the way they came.

Cullen stayed on his knees for several more minuets, trying to push past the surprise of the betrayal and plan his course of action. The traitors, be it from urgency or compassion, did not lock anything behind them and Cullen could go for help or wait for someone to find him. With all the chaos and confusion the pair were surely going to cause, help coming to him seemed unlikely. Besides, Cullen was never very good at waiting. Climbing to his feet by sheer will alone, he began slowly making his way out of the dungeons with one arm wrapped around his stomach to reach the pulsing pain in his back while the other hand supported his weight against the wall. His steps were heavy and wobbly, but determined, and he would be damned if he let a literal and metaphorical stab in the back keep him from his duties.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Leopold's venom, being so dangerous and volatile, was kept far from the other components in its own secured room. Ebrisa was one of a handful of people who had a key, being not only the person who brought it in each week but also the assistant to the senior enchanter who used it most often. By her count, there should have been more containers and she spent far longer in the cold room than she intended that day going over the log sheet. The venom was a carefully controlled substance and Orsino had sworn he would only permit its usage for beneficial potions and tonics, but Solivitus seemed to have taken an excessive number of jars. Only a little venom was required to amplify the potency of other ingredients and the merchant did not usually take more than two containers at a time.

Ebrisa hummed worriedly, taking the entire log book and locking the door behind herself. It was possible Solivitus was experimenting, trying to broaden the usage of the rare substance the Gallows was fortunate to have, but it was risky to have such a large amount laying around his workshop at once. She would have to speak with the first enchanter after searching the records for other oddities. Perhaps she should make up a few batches of the lesser antidote just in case.

Her mind mulling over the implications of misplaced wyvern venom, Ebrisa failed to notice the faint trail of blood bisecting her path as she entered the wider corridor. What did catch her eye as she rounded the corner was the slumped over figure propped against the wall. A horrified gasp leapt from her throat as she took in the surroundings, finally seeing the dark, scattered drops she'd so carelessly been walking over a moment ago. She hurried over to the injured templar, dropping the log book with a thud so she could focus on the far more pressing and important matter.

When she was close enough to see around the bulky armor that had been obscuring the warrior's features, she nearly screamed. Ebrisa dropped to her knees before Cullen, ignoring the jolt of pain that shot through her as she drew her fear-widened eyes over the man. His skin was far too pale for her liking and clammy to the touch, the mage pressing a shaking hand to his neck to check for a pulse. She found one, but its pace did nothing to ease her building terror and overwhelming concern.

He was breathing, he was alive, but he was unresponsive and left Ebrisa's frantic questions unanswered. It didn't take long for her to find the wound, but once her eyes locked onto the growing pool of blood she couldn't tear them away. “Maker, Cullen...” she whispered, her voice tight with a flood of emotions that wouldn't leave her alone long enough to think. She tried to shake the worry and panic away, remembering that she had been training as a healer and her energy would be better spent mending the injured man than staring at him. Taking a calming breath, she called upon the mana in her veins.

Nothing happened.

Ebrisa snapped her eyes to her hands, feeling betrayed by her own body as it refused to allow her access to her magic. She tried calling upon one of her spirit companions, perhaps the newly acquainted Belief was nearby, but she heard no answer from the spirit of faith. Panic crawled up her throat as she looked back to Cullen and the dark puddle beneath him. Ebrisa tried again, tried everything she could think of, but neither her own powers nor that of the goodly spirits responded.

The store rooms in this section of the Gallows were mainly filled with weapons and spare furniture, nothing remotely helpful behind the locked doors, and Ebrisa finally did throw back her head and release the scream that had been bubbling in the back of her throat. As the frustrated sound echoed down the corridor, she opened her eyes and found the source of her failures – the wards. She had forgotten in her crippling fear for the templar that the runes even existed, but now knew that if she hoped to do anything for Cullen, she couldn't be near them. The man was far too heavy for her to move – never mind the fact that dragging him from the corridor would likely cause him more harm – so that left Ebrisa with only one option.

The mage scrambled back to her feet searching the immediate area desperately for something solid to chisel the runes into broken script, but there was nothing. No candlestick, no hammer, no Maker-forsaken discarded helm! Ebrisa thumped her head against the wall, moaning in annoyance and terror and a growing sense of uselessness. Once again she found herself inches from a friend's pool of blood, unable to do anything as they lay dying right beside her. The thought made her entire body run cold, stopping her heart and lungs from functioning.

Cullen was dying? There was certainly a lot of blood and Maker only knew how long he'd been sitting there injured, but he couldn't be dying. Cullen couldn't die.

In the stillness the horror consumed her with, Ebrisa finally heard the faint tinking of the key around her neck bouncing off the stone. She snapped upright, tearing the bit of metal free of its cord and holding it tightly in her hand as she began stabbing at the wards in earnest. It was slow going and the key dug into her flesh more than it did the stone wall, but the pain in her bloodying hand was nothing compared to the pain in her chest and she continued chiseling away with frenzied slams of her fist and frantic breaths.

Cullen couldn't die. She wouldn't allow it. She _couldn't_ allow it. He'd only just started talking to her again, started showing her that rare smile and even rarer twinkling in his eyes as he laughed. He'd only just started being happy again, started making _her_ happy, and Ebrisa couldn't lose that. Ebrisa couldn't lose Cullen.

She squeezed her blurring eyes shut, feeling the hot tears run down her cheeks as she pleaded in her mind to the Maker, to Andraste, to any who would listen. She would give anything, do anything, if only someone would help Cullen. Her next blind strike at the wall missed its target and Ebrisa stumbled forward with the momentum of the swing. She opened her eyes in confusion, finding herself outside in some sort of grove that, under less dire circumstances, Ebrisa would have found quite beautiful.

Her eyes searched the area frantically until she found Cullen leaning against a tree, still as sickly looking as before and still bleeding. She rushed over to him, sighing in the barest of relief that at least wherever she was, he was there too. Ebrisa realized half a moment later that the wards could no longer hold her back and she once again tried to call upon her healing arts. To her frustration and despair, nothing happened. Nothing happened, and there was nothing she could do.

“I'm so sorry,” she whimpered, lightly trailing her fingers across Cullen's face, pushing his short curls from his dewy skin.

“What have you to be sorry for, child?” A honeyed voice questioned from behind the mage. Ebrisa spun around, finding a woman with strawberry hair styled in a thick ringlet over each shoulder sitting calmly on a fallen log. “Was it you that harmed this man?”

Ebrisa was uncertain how she had missed the stranger earlier. “No, but I can't heal him. There's just so much blood and I – I'm afraid he might... I should be able to help him, but I...”

The woman hummed lightly, focusing her attention on weaving and twisting the thin stems of the flowers in her lap. “I could help him.”

“You could?” Ebrisa's voice was small, barely a whisper, but it was heavy with hope. “Please, messere, help Cullen. I beg of you.”

“I said I _could_ ,” the woman enunciated, glancing up briefly before returning to the floral crown. “I will require something from you in order to do so.”

A chill ran down the mage's spine, realization settling in. She had called out for any sort of aid, had promised anything, and this being had answered, but goodly spirits did not ask for anything in return for their aid. This being was obviously powerful, able to pull a conscious mind into the Fade to discuss terms in a more pleasant environment without consent. This being was surely a demon, but no others had answered her. Ebrisa swallowed the doubt, knowing that whatever the creature asked of her, she would gladly give if it meant Cullen would be alright. Cullen couldn't die.

“Name your price,” the mage said in as firm a voice as she could manage.

“Precisely.” The woman selected an orange wildflower from the pile on the log beside her and began working it into the crown. “My price is my name.”

Ebrisa furrowed her brow in confusion, waiting for the calm woman to explain further. When she only continued weaving stems together, the mage pressed for clarification. “I don't understand. What does that mean?”

“If you want my aid, then you must name me.”

“How? I don't know your name.” Thanks to Mother's interventions, Ebrisa had very little interaction with residents of the Fade, which begged the question of why Mother was allowing this at all. Had she been overwhelmed?

“Oh?” The woman chuckled softly, raising a brow but not straying her eyes from the plucked plants in her hands. “Are you saying you have never encountered me before? Never felt my presence?”

“No,” Ebrisa quickly denied, a sense of urgency taking over as every second she wasted talking was time she could have spent chipping away at the wards in the real world. “I don't know you!”

The woman stilled her fingers, finally looking up at the desperate mage. “You do. The problem is, you haven't admitted it yet. Until you name me, I can not help.”

“But I – I _don't know you!_ Please, I'll do anything you ask of me.” Ebrisa felt the tears brimming her eyes again, but did her best to hold eye contact with the woman. “You must help Cullen. Please, he can't die. I- I can't lose him...”

The woman smiled gently and nodded and for a moment Ebrisa thought the being was going to act, but then she spoke. “And why is that?”

The mage hung her mouth open slightly, trying to find the reason. Why was she so desperate to save the templar that making a deal with a demon gave her no pause? “Be- because he's my friend – a dear friend – and I can't lose another one so soon after Vemara.” That made sense. The hurt of the elven child's death had lessened considerably, but facing the prospect of another important person in her life being taken away brought the pain back.

“And if it were Edan you found gravely injured, would you be this desperate?”

An affirmation died on Ebrisa's lips before she could voice it, realizing that while she cared for the chestnut haired boy as deeply as she had Vemara, as though he were her own flesh and blood, she would not dabble in dark magic to save him. “No...”  
The woman's smile grew. “So why are you willing to go so far for this man?”

“I...” Ebrisa turned to Cullen, expecting him to voice the answer himself, yet he remained mute and deaf to the conversation. “I can't lose him...”

“Why?”

For such a simple question, Ebrisa was having a difficult time answering. She tried to form words, tried to arrange her thoughts until the reasoning the being was seeking manifested itself. “He... Cullen makes me feel safe. I trust him... I trust him more than anyone.” Ebrisa tentatively lifted her hand, lightly cupping one of the templar's clammy cheeks. She swallowed the small rush of panic that he would suddenly wake and swat her hand away, but he had held her this way after Bann Trevelyan disowned her. He had comforted her and reassured her. He had _seen_ her, and in so doing, helped her see herself. “Cullen makes me feel like I'm not a mistake.”

The woman stood up from the log and slowly made her way across the small clearing. “Why?”

“Because he's kind and caring,” Ebrisa answered, not a trace of hesitation in her now. She cupped the other side of his face, lightly drawing her thumbs over his broad cheekbones and wishing his skin held the same warmth it had when he held her hand in the Chantry. “When he laughs, it makes me smile. When he smiles, it makes my chest flutter. I want to share in every bit of his happiness. I want to soothe every ounce of his sadness. I want to take all of his pains away, even if they'll harm me a thousand times more.”

The woman was standing right behind her now, a knowing smile in her voice as she asked once again, “Why?”

Ebrisa stared at the unconscious man, willing him to wake up so she could tell him all the things she had just voiced. Her chest ached painfully, pulling tighter and tighter as she watched for any sign of change and felt the tears once again slipping down her face. “I can't lose him,” she repeated quietly, barely above a whisper. The pull inside her increased as she tried to imagine a life without Cullen in it, how painful and lonely it would be, and then the pressure suddenly released in a burst of warmth and she gasped loudly.

She didn't want a life without Cullen, didn't want a single day without him breathing the same air, didn't want a home where he wasn't. Again, she wished he was awake so she could share her revelation with him, so she could tell him what she'd only just realized herself. “I... Cullen, I...” Ebrisa leaned in, resting her forehead to his and closing her shining eyes. “Don't leave me, _please_. I love you...”

The woman settled the finished wreath of flowers on Ebrisa's head, chuckling sweetly in her ear. “See? You knew my name all along.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! 34 chapters in and one of the idiots finally says it! Granted, its more to a spirit of love than to Cullen, but she knows now. *shakes Ebrisa* You did it, kinda! Good going, girl!


	35. Impulse

The first thing Cullen noticed as he slowly regained consciousness was the tingling warmth encompassing his entire body and the pressure against his cheeks and forehead. He released an almost silent groan as he opened his eyes, expecting bright light but finding instead a blurry figure. His senses awakened soon after and he was able to identify the figure that was too close to make out with his sight by her scent instead. “Ebrisa?”

The mage pulled back, moving one hand to his chest but keeping the other on his face. Her tear-filled eyes searched him for a moment, worry etched into every one of her features as she sought out any trace of harm. She let out a broken laugh, relief flooding her, and before Cullen could ask what was going on, the mage leaned in once again. Ebrisa pressed her lips to his, desperate and awkward, drawing a muffled sound of surprise from the templar.

Cullen understood then that he hadn't really woken up yet and this was just another dream. He quickly gave in to the fantasy, closing his eyes and tilting his head slightly to correct the angle of the kiss and taking control. Ebrisa's body went weak and she clutched the rim of his gorget to hold herself up, trying to follow his lead with the kiss and mimic his movements as she slipped her other hand from his cheek into his hair.

It struck Cullen as odd that in this dream Ebrisa seemed so inexperienced, but the sensation of kissing her was so much more satisfying than it had even been before. Perhaps it was because this was likely a truer representation of the woman, or the stronger intensity of her scent, or maybe even the strange addition of tears that added to the sensation. Ebrisa tasted different than she did in the usual dreams – sweeter – and the saltiness gathered in the corners of her mouth from her crying served only to enhanced it. He finally settled his hovering hands on her hips, moving his thumbs in slow circles against the softness there, and the mage gasped, parting her far too enticing lips to release the sound. Cullen leaned forward, intent on deepening the kiss and claiming the inside of her mouth as well, but twisted away to hiss at the sudden pain shooting up his back.

Wait. Pain?

“Oh!” Ebrisa quickly scrambled around his side to inspect the mostly healed wound, gently prodding the area. “Maker's Mercy, I think part of the weapon that did this is still in there.”

Free of the figure blocking his vision, Cullen took a moment to look around the familiar corridor and found the source of the tingling warmth flowing through him. A rose tinted light surrounded him, much like healing auras do, but he had never known one to be that color before. Why would he need to be healed in a dream?

“I'm sorry, but I have to pull it out,” Ebrisa said from behind him, concern evident in her voice. “Its going to hurt, but I have to...” She gave him a moment to steel himself, then slid a finger into the wound and fished the broken off point out with her nail, apologizing near constantly until the small bit of metal was removed.

The minor ordeal helped focus Cullen and he was able to pull up the situation that had caused the injury. It also made him realize that this was not at all a dream.

Sweet Blood of Andraste...

“Is that... are you alright now?” Ebrisa remained out of his line of sight, but he felt her presence more acutely then ever. “There was so much blood and I... I was afraid you might...” She let out a shaky breath, as though it might expel the lingering fear from her voice.

The knight-captain climbed to his feet, feeling only the faintest sensation of discomfort as the healing aura sped to complete its task now that the wound was free of obstructions. “I should be fine now, thank you,” Cullen quickly responded, unable to look at the mage. “I need to inform the knight-commander about what happened in the vault immediately. Excuse me.”

He didn't wait for a reply and briskly walked away, feeling his face heat over what had just happened. He had kissed Ebrisa, _really_ kissed her. The _real_ her. _For real_. Cullen could use the current disaster as a shield for now, but eventually he would have to address what he had done. Although... it was Ebrisa who had kissed _him_ , he'd merely responded. It was a natural reaction on his part, to be honest. And Ebrisa? Well, she said she had been worried for him, so she was overcome with relief. That was all. Both of them had acted in perfectly explainable and reasonable ways. Maybe they would never need to talk about it?

The last of the healing aura faded away and Cullen was a little concerned that his lips were still tingling with the feel of Ebrisa's own, his hair still weighed down by the ghost of her fingers buried there. In that moment, he was glad Samuel's dagger had broken off inside him as the pain prevented him from laying Ebrisa on her back in the middle of the dirty corridor and really giving into his fantasies. Yes, if he ever saw the traitor again, Cullen would be sure to thank Samuel right before he punched him squarely in the face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
To say the fleeing en masse was chaotic would be an understatement. Taft and Samuel had opened as many cells as they could and ran across the halls crying out that this was the best chance the mages had for freedom. Many took the rare opportunity and managed to overpower the unprepared templars in their way, stealing boats or running through the subterranean passages before reinforcements could be gathered. Taft and Samuel, to their credit, did not try to flee with the mages. When a group of templars surrounded the pair, the traitors calmly surrendered to the knight-commander herself. Meredith personally saw them swiftly punished to prevent further bleeding hearts from following in their foolish footsteps.

It took weeks for most of the escapees to return. Some resisted, some turned themselves in, but all suffered the same stint in isolation. During that time, Cullen was blessedly busy organizing patrols and incorporating templars into the city guard's rotations. Aveline protested the intrusion, swearing she would bring in any mage her men encountered, but her years working with apostates at the Champion's side fostered too much doubt of that. In those weeks, the man had no idle time and spent much of the day in the city and marching the coast, assigning himself to search parties to decrease his chances of running into Ebrisa. But no matter how skillfully he avoided the mage during his waking hours, he could not escape her in his sleep.

The Fade caresses couldn't hold a candle to the real thing – not now that Cullen had experienced even a fragment of what it was truly like – and his dreams were no longer consumed with embracing the mage. Instead, Ebrisa stood silently in front of him, hands clasped over her chest as if in prayer. Her expression was so hopeful and she watched him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

Cullen never could.

Even in his dreams, he hadn't the faintest idea of what to say, of how to explain the kiss away. When he thought about it on his own, a multitude of excuses and reasons came to mind and each sounded perfectly plausible. As soon as Ebrisa looked at him with that tiny, timid smile and faint coloring on her cheeks every single one of those reasons flew away. Even in his dreams, he couldn't bring himself to lie to Ebrisa about that kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Edan muttered under his breath as he watched another group of mages fresh from isolation being escorted to the food line. He – like many others in Grace's group – had not fled. They were too suspicious of the apparent trap to risk being exposed, but had hoped more of their fellows would stay free. There appeared to only be a handful still on the loose and Edan wished them the best of luck.

He directed his attention back to the enchanter sitting opposite him in the dinning hall and managed to hold back muttering once again. Ebrisa had barely touched her meal, staring at the wall with a far off look as her fork rested against her slightly parted mouth. The food that was on that fork had been eaten several minutes ago, yet still the prongs pressed gently into her bottom lip as the meal hour ticked away.

It seemed that every moment of free time the enchanter had was now spent day dreaming, making her rather terrible company to keep. Edan nudged her foot under the table, finally fed up with the silence, and snapped Ebrisa back to the real world. She jumped at the interruption and dropped the fork, scrambling to catch it before it bounced to the floor and she'd be forced to fetch a new one. Edan waited a moment to let the blonde collect her utensil and her thoughts before he said anything.

“Alright, I'm well past curious now. What's going on with you?” He planted his elbows on the table, framing his arms over his tray.

“Going on? With me?” Ebrisa laughed awkwardly and returned to her meal. “I'm acting perfectly normal, Edan.”

The teen snorted, unconvinced. “You're holding the wrong end.”

She frowned briefly at the wedge of potato speared on the blunted point of her fork's handle before setting it down, her face heating from both embarrassment and the memory that had been occupying her mind every waking second.

When Cullen awoke while the spirit was healing him, Ebrisa had been so overwhelmed with her own emotions and feelings that she hadn't spared a single thought for the ramifications of her actions. All that mattered when Cullen looked at her was that his cheeks had regained most of their color, that the beads of sweat over his skin had all but dripped away, that he was breathing... that he was _alive_. She was just so happy, so relieved, that she couldn't stop herself from following the impulse and kissing him. Cullen had been surprised and that muffled yelp was enough to awaken Ebrisa's better sense and she recalled how terribly uncomfortable and intrusive Feynriel's Fade kiss had been for her. Just as she was about to pull away, just as she as about to apologize more profusely than she had for anything else in her entire life, Cullen shifted slightly and the world turned upside down.

In truth, Ebrisa knew it had only lasted a moment, but at the time it felt as though there was an eternity in that kiss. Cullen was so warm, so powerful, so _perfect,_ and he seemed to know Ebrisa's body better than she did. She had turned to liquid in his embrace, feeling things she never had before in ways she never knew possible, then it all abruptly ended and she was reminded that he was injured. He had been attacked. He had a duty to perform.

She took no offense when the templar rushed away from her, knowing Meredith needed to be informed about the phylacteries. She felt no pang of hurt when he spent his days away from the Gallows, knowing the escaped mages could accidentally hurt themselves or others if gone for too long. What she did feel was guilt over forcing herself on him in the first place. Ebrisa knew she shouldn't have kissed him, knew the rules she was breaking, but she also knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would do it again if she could. She knew she loved him, and no amount of shame could ever diminish that wonderful feeling.

“Well?”

Ebrisa focused her eyes on Edan, realizing she'd zoned out once again. “Oh... well, to be honest, something's happened.”

“Happened?” Edan leaned in slightly, curious as to what could have possibly been more attention grabbing than the almost exodus of the Gallows. Neither Meredith nor Orsino seemed to be in very giving moods, so the likelihood of Ebrisa receiving any sort of accolade or promotion was abysmal. She did like fiddling with recipes and formulas, so perhaps some progress had been made on that front. “You've... made a breakthrough?”

She lowered her eyes to the table and placed a hand to her chest, feeling the rhythmic beating of her heart that had been in a near constant flutter. “I have. It was right in front of me for so long, but I just couldn't recognize it. I didn't know what it was, but now...” She took in a slow, quiet breath. “Now, I wonder how I could have been so blind.”

The teen nodded, pretending he understood, and returned to his meal. Through all the years he'd known Ebrisa, he had never seen her smile – _truly smile_ – so much. Her happiness was making her almost too radiant to look at, like staring at the sun, but Edan found he could keep his eyes off her no more than she could stop shining. He wished he knew exactly what was causing the enchanter's blissful expression and quiet sighs if for no other reason than to later repeat it. Edan smirked at the woman's unbridled happiness, knowing that the only thing that could make it better would be if he was the one causing it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The Champion of Kirkwall came to the rescue once again, bringing in Emile de Launcet and reporting the other two missing mages had been otherwise dealt with and what they were doing. To hear that two out of the three were blood mages fueled Meredith's paranoia and she became near certain that the ratio applied to the entire Circle. Evelina, the former Fereldan Circle mage that Orsino had tried to vouch for, had even gone so far as to become an abomination and that fact all but striped the first enchanter of the last of his authority. Maleficarum hiding everywhere, Orsino's judgment compromised, and still no one sitting in the Viscount seat. Meredith really had her work cut out for her.

Now that the crisis was dealt with, Cullen could no longer hide behind it. He saw to the restoration of the phylactery vault and began placing a guard at the beginning of the corridor and another by the vault door. It seemed like a waste of man power, but the hassle of recollecting mages and their phylacteries was extreme enough to humor the postings for the time being. During the clean up, Cullen found himself staring at the spot in the corridor where he had collapsed and wondered not for the first time how Ebrisa had even managed to heal him. There were shallow scratches and chips in a small section of the runes nearby, but not nearly enough to bypass the anti-magic wards.

Staring at the spot also brought to mind what else Ebrisa had done there and the knight-captain felt his face heat at the memory. The feelings that single kiss stirred inside him were troubling and he couldn't avoid it for much longer. Sooner or later, Ebrisa would catch him alone and he would be unable to get away short of lamely saying he had to go and bolting. That would only work maybe once, and not very smoothly.

Purely out of desperation, Cullen wrote to Branson seeking advice. He regretted sending the letter nearly as soon as it was gone, knowing that it must make him look the fool to be asking for help with woman troubles from his younger brother, but he couldn't very well talk to anyone local. Besides, Cullen had been with the templars since he was thirteen and Branson was free to spend his adolescence going on dates and chatting up the ladies. That's not to say Cullen had no experience with the physical aspect of relations, but this emotional involvement was frightening. There were consequences for everything he did, now more than ever.

It was a great surprise then when he received a reply from his older sister, knowing he had clearly addressed his queries to Branson and Branson alone. Mia just had to butt her nose into everything, for good or ill.

_“Aww, my little brother kissed a girl! How cute. Was dipping her hair in ink and hiding frogs in her things not working out, so you went for the direct approach? I know, I know, I shouldn't make fun but does that help you gauge how childish your concern is? You're both adults. Just act like grown ups._

_“Or is this a problem because you wish to expand on the kiss? I know there are rules around templar relationships, but they aren't unheard of. A couple of the templars here in South Reach are married and one was even wed after joining the Order. You_ _ can _ _have a girlfriend, Cullen._

_“I know your commander is strict, but maybe the Grand Cleric would grant permission. Admittedly, I have no clue how you would go about doing that, but if you have the okay from a revered mother, than the other templars will have no choice but go along with it. Wouldn't a happy knight-captain make for happier troops? So long as you don't rub their nose in it, that is._

_“I did notice you were annoyingly vague about this woman you kissed. No description, no name, not even initials so I can begin embroidering them on teacloths. You know, as a gift. For when she visits. Because_ _ you'll _ _visit. Right? Any woman that has my little brother so flustered that he writes to a useless flirt like Branson for advice_ _ has _ _to be interesting. I'm dying to meet her. When you visit. Because you_ _ will _ _visit._

_Love,_

_The best big sister ever,_

_Mia.”_

 

Cullen resisted the urge to crush the letter in his hand, face red with a mixture of anger and embarrassment as he slumped further over his knees at the edge of his bed. Mia's unsolicited advice was completely useless, but he supposed Branson's wouldn't have been much better given how vague he'd been. In fact, now that Cullen thought on it, Branson was likely to make fun of him even more than Mia had. At least Mia's jests were there to prove a point, even if she didn't have any specifics.

He had provided very little information about his situation and even less detail about Ebrisa for fear of his already incriminating missive being intercepted by another templar or – Maker forbid – Meredith herself. He was certain there were enough people in the Gallows that already suspected some sort of involvement between himself and the mage, but as of yet there had been nothing concrete enough to confront him with. Cullen owed Carver a bit of thanks for that, as the knight kept him apprised of any developing rumors before they really took off. The barracks were ripe with gossip and often times officers didn't find out until a rumor had snowballed out of control and was more or less accepted as truth.

The initial flash of red subsided, Cullen reread the letter and processed his sister's suggestion. Get special sanction for a relationship? He'd seen several such requests denied on Meredith's desk over the years regarding outside individuals – a merchant's daughter, some magistrate's nephew, a seamstress in Lowtown who was doing quite well for herself - and Cullen knew that going over her head to the Grand Cleric would not make the knight-commander any more receptive to the idea. Even less so if the sanction was for relationships within the ranks. A request regarding a mage? That would only earn the templar exile and the mage the brand, if they were so lucky.

Cullen folded the letter back up, rising from the straw mattress to place Mia's letter with the rest of his scattered correspondence, and stilled only two steps from the bed. His mind had gone so quickly to the logistics of getting sanction that he completely glossed over a very crucial aspect. _Did_ he want a relationship with Ebrisa? A friendship, surely, but did he want more than that?

He didn't want her to come to harm, but that was just normal, friendly concern. Then why wasn't he so protective of other mages or his own men? He fantasied about her, but that was just normal, carnal desire. Then why didn't he ever dream of someone else, even after going to the tavern? No, it was ridiculous. It was impossible. Somehow, knowing that Meredith wouldn't allow her templars to be in any sort of relationship with anyone from any walk of life made the lump in Cullen's throat a little easier to swallow. It was pointless to even dwell on the idea, because the knight-commander would never approve. Thinking about Mia's suggestion any further would only serve to drive him mad with what-if's.

Cullen shook his head, conceding to another of Mia's points – he was acting childish. He and Ebrisa were both adults and they both knew the rules. There was no reason they couldn't have a calm, civilized conversation and discuss what had happened between them. Honestly, he was blowing the entire thing out of proportion. It was _one kiss_. It could have just as easily been on the cheek and meant the same thing to Ebrisa.

The letter finally found its new home in the desk, buried beneath a few of its older brethren as Cullen tried to bury the idea in his head. When the wooden drawer clicked closed, a small voice echoed from the depths of his now banished thoughts.

_What did Ebrisa want?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did the thing! Kinda!  
> *tosses confetti into the air*
> 
> I'm just gonna come clean and admit that I have already written a page of the Inquisition continuation of this. I'm horrible. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it.


	36. Understanding

Wanting to get the conversation over with before he lost his nerve again but also being weary of watchful eyes, Cullen arranged Ebrisa's Sunday escort with templars he felt he could trust to not report his sudden appearance. It was considerately more difficult to do with the increased numbers now required but he somehow managed. He was sure to leave the Gallows after they did, giving the group time to make their way up the coast and attend to the wyvern. The amount of time spent in the cave varied from week to week, but Cullen thought it would be best to catch Ebrisa after seeing Leopold.

He waited at the trail head he knew they would be using, running things over in his mind and growing more anxious by the minute. There was no need to be nervous. This was going to be an easy conversation. All he was going to do was acknowledge the kiss had happened, clear up that it had been a simple impulse and didn't mean anything, and then they could go back to how everything was before. Simple. Easy. Not a problem.

“You're insane!” Marian’s voice bounced off the cliffs, signaling the groups arrival. “There's no way Rene Weis can win the grand melee _again._ He's an old fart!”

“I believe you mean to say _experienced individual_.” Garret cut back, glaring briefly at the woman before leaning over to Thrask. “Sorry about all that. She has no respect for the elderly.”

The middle-aged man only shook his head, chuckling quietly at the entire exchange while Carver muttered something about needing a break. Before the group was even in sight, Cullen was regretting assigning the snarky pair. They'd shown some level of support of – or at least interest in – Cullen and Ebrisa's interactions based on that strange stunt they pulled in the Chantry, but perhaps they were too unpredictable to be present for this. Maybe he should try to speak with Ebrisa some other time.

“Cullen?”

He stiffened at the sound of his name on the mage's lips, wondering both when she started calling him by it and how she had manged to see him first while walking in the back. The templars stopped short, finally seeing their captain down the path, and saluted on reflex.

“At ease,” Cullen called out, waving down their hands as he walked closer. The group relaxed, Thrask looking at him curiously, and the other three casting various looks between the blondes and each other. He cleared his throat, pushing the last of his hesitation away and locked eyes with Ebrisa briefly before addressing the group once again. “I require a word with Enchanter Ebrisa.”

A faint flicker of surprise passed over the mage's face, but was quickly replaced with a warm smile as she nodded. “Of course.” Ebrisa made her way past the others, missing the extremely obvious wink from Garret and the numerous elbow nudges Marian landed on Carver's arm. Cullen tried his best to ignore them as he lead Ebrisa down a small side path for a bit of privacy. Yes, Cullen was really regretting this plan. Maybe a meeting in the Circle would have been better after all.

The wind blew up the side of the cliff, carrying the scent of the sea and lightly stirring their hair and rustling the thinner fabrics of the mage's robes. Ebrisa lifted a hand, brushing the loose strands from her face and tucking them behind her ear as her smile grew a little more, the simple action causing Cullen's chest to tighten and his pulse to quicken. He forced his eyes away, looking out over the water and trying to regain the relative calm he had a moment ago.

“What did you need to speak with me about?” She gently prodded after several awkward minuets of the templar silently staring to the side.

“Right,” Cullen breathed, as much to himself as to her. Returning his focus to the self-appointed mission, the man set his shoulders back and took up a stoic expression as though he truly was performing some sort of official duty. “We need to talk about what happened in the lower levels. What you-” he paused to correct himself, knowing he had been an equal participant, “- what _we_ did.”

The mage's face reddened considerably and she lowered her eyes shyly, slowly dragging her bottom lip against her teeth. “I thought you might have forgotten about that...”

“Impossible,” Cullen whispered before he had a chance to think better of it, the word apparently just loud enough to reach Ebrisa and draw her eyes back to his. She held his gaze, looking up at him through her lashes with a sparkle he'd only caught brief glimpses of in the past. That light in her eyes shone brighter as she brought her fingers to her mouth to hide the growing smile and failing to muffle the quiet giggle that slipped out, the sound just loud enough to reach Cullen.

“I'm glad.” She broke eye contact if for no other reason than to prevent herself from grinning like an idiot, a level she was rapidly approaching.

Cullen swallowed thickly. He hadn't expected Ebrisa to be so openly elated by their kiss and her obvious approval of the action was going to make this conversation so much more complicated than he'd originally counted on. “You shouldn't be.” He took a small breath, pushing forward. “I know you were concerned for my well being – and I appreciate that – but your reaction after the fact was... inappropriate.” When Ebrisa didn't move or say anything in reply, he continued. “It would be better if we both forgot about it. A very clear line was crossed, intentional or no, and that can't happen again.”

Still, the mage did not so much as flex her fingers as she stood before him, soaking up his words and sifting through them for a meaning hidden beneath the obvious one. When she finally replied, her voice was tight and controlled. “But... you kissed me back.”

An ache began to thrum in Cullen's chest. “I did.”

Ebrisa's lips tugged upward in an awkward smile, the rest of her remaining still. “Do you regret it?”

Cullen hesitated, struggling with saying what he knew he should and what he wanted to. He took his time in answering, changing each of his true replies for schooled templar responses and feeling the pain in his chest increase with each lie he spoke.

_Maker, no!_ “Yes.”

_It was wonderful._ “It was a mistake.”

_I've been dreaming of doing that for so long._ “It never should have happened.”

The mage nodded, the small action breaking the frozen nature of her posture and she turned to face the man fully like she had been at the beginning of the conversation. “I see.”

The strange smile she had adopted before her question remained, but the warm light in her eyes was dim now. It still twinkled in those bright green depths, still present, but if Cullen hadn't known to look for it, it would have been too faint to notice.

“The rules laid down by the Order and the Chantry are there for a reason,” Cullen began, feeling strangely as though he needed to explain himself. “We must abide by the rules.”

She nodded again, expression never wavering. “Yes, that's fine. You need to stay focused on your responsibilities. I... apologize. I shouldn't distract you with-” Ebrisa's voice cut out, her throat seizing, and she coughed a few times before she could speak again. “I'm fine. I know the rules. I don't know why I...” She looked away, clearing her throat and saying once more in a considerably quieter voice, “I'm fine.”

“So long as we understand each other,” Cullen mumbled, finding Ebrisa's easy acceptance somehow hurtful.

“Yes, Knight-Captain,” Ebrisa said with the same, uneasy smile, “I understand you perfectly.”

His mission completed, Cullen nodded and walked away, listening for the sound of movement behind him. It appeared that the others wished to give him a bit of a head start before returning to the Gallows themselves and Cullen was glad of it, though curious if it was out of respect or because they had overheard something.

Straightening out the kiss that had been looming over him for weeks should have brought a sense of relief, but Cullen was somehow worse off. He had always prided himself on his honesty and lying like that on such an important question made him feel like a stranger in his own skin, as though someone else had taken control in that moment to say what he couldn't. All of his concerns, all of his anxieties, and in the end it didn't matter. Ebrisa didn't seem to mind that they couldn't touch like that again.

She had nodded and smiled and said she understood. She knew the rules – of course she did – and agreed that they should follow them. She had barely even argued, pointing out one detail and asking only one question. She said she was fine. She just... accepted it.

Cullen rubbed at his breastplate, scoffing at his previous thoughts and half-baked ideas. Mia's advice had been a moot point – regardless of whether or not Cullen wanted a relationship with Ebrisa, the mage was perfectly content to not pursue one. If she had any desire to be with him, she would have protested, she would have refused to forget the kiss, she would have shed a tear. Cullen nearly snorted, realizing he was disappointed he hadn't made the mage cry, as awful as that sounded.

He wouldn't have felt any better if Ebrisa _had_ broken down, but at least then he would know that she cared about him as more than a friend. He would know where she stood, and maybe then finally be able to figure out where _he_ did. Cullen shook his head, trying to rid it of the pointless thoughts and picked up the pace. His armor was incredibly uncomfortable and he was eager to get back to his quarters so he could properly address the searing ache in his chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Though she had been disowned, Ebrisa found she still had use for much of her nobility training. Her posture created a dignified air when she was being escorted outside the Circle, her etiquette helped others keep level heads during discussions, and her dedication to the Chantry inspired others to come to worship as well. All of those things were fine compliments to her character, but the skill Ebrisa found the most useful now was how to smile through anything.

Cullen had stood before her, ripping out her heart and crushing her pathetic hopes for something more than comradery and she was able to keep a pleasant expression in place. Inside, she was screaming and crying and wishing she'd just kept walking beside Ser Thrask and the others. Outside, she was calm and understanding. Outside she was fine, but she would never _be fine_.

It had been a quiet walk back to the Gallows, Ser Garret and Ser Marian whispering to each other as they brought up the rear of the group. Carver had given her an inquisitive brow raise after Cullen left, but neither he nor Ser Thrask said a single thing. Thrask did cast her a concerned look that was almost fatherly and Ebrisa had to turn away.

The older, red-haired man already reminded her enough of Bann Trevelyan and thinking of her father pulled up the painful memory of how he abandoned her. It was okay to cry then, because Cullen was there to bring her back from despair. He told her it didn't matter what she was, but he had been lying. It had all been platitudes to stop her tears. It did matter what she was, at least to him. She was a mage, so he had to keep his distance. If she wasn't, then maybe they would have had a chance together.

She couldn't cry when she was abandoned this time, because there was no Cullen to take the hurt away. She couldn't cry as he refused her, because the rules said she shouldn't even offer. She couldn't cry as he told her to forget the kiss, because she didn't want to darken the precious memory. She couldn't cry as the man she loved broke her heart, because she didn't want to cause him any discomfort. She didn't want to encourage more platitudes. She didn't want to hear any more lies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
With the viscount seat still empty, many matters that were normally dealt with at the keep followed Meredith's authority to the Gallows. The knight-commander read complaint after complaint, dismissing most as trivial but taking great interest in others. Nobles began to catch on that if they had a political or business rival, an anonymous letter of concern regarding mage activity at the rival's residence would result in a thorough and humiliating search of the property and keep the occupants away from the public for some time. Aveline tried her best to stop such blatant abuse of power when warrants lacked any sort of actual evidence, impeding Meredith's mission to rid Kirkwall of apostates and maleficarum.

Meredith saw the intrusion as blatant disregard for her authority, but was powerless to remove the equally stubborn woman from office. Kirkwall had no official ruler, so it was important that the templars, the Chantry, and the guard were united, but Aveline seemed to fight the more experienced leader on every front, so when the first complaint against the guard-captain came in from Lowtown, Meredith began working out how to solve her red-headed problem.

Her solution was to consolidate authority and replace the guard-captain with her own knight-captain, giving Cullen command of the city guard. She knew he would thrive in the position, policing Kirkwall and directing those under him with the same dedication he did now, but most of all she knew he would answer to her. With all the sneaking and underhanded goings-on in the city these days, it was important to have allies she could trust.

While Meredith saw the reassignment as a promotion, Cullen saw it as a headache and he already had enough of those. As more anonymous complaints came in and Meredith built her case against Aveline, Cullen wrote to Hawke in hopes she could get out in front of the issue. The word of the Champion held more weight than nameless letters and if a single missive could save the career of a fellow, hard-working Fereldan, then it was worth the reprimand he would likely receive should Meredith find out.

 

Standing in the eerily silent entry yard gave him too much time to think and let his mind wander to happier days when there had been foolish possibilities. He thought often of those lighthearted chess games in the library with Ebrisa and the sweet sound of her laughter. There were so many subtle things about her that he had taken for granted – the way her lips twitched upward just a fraction each time she met his eyes, the quiet hitch in her voice as responded to a tease, the almost unnoticed shift in her posture to bring herself just a little closer to him. He missed them and so many other things about Ebrisa, having seen her even less than when he was actively avoiding her. The idea crossed his mind that she could be avoiding him after their discussion on the coast, but she had seemed so unphased by the words that hurt him to say that he knew it wasn't the case. He wanted to go back to the carefree interactions they used to have before Taft and Samuel forced everything – and everyone – in the Gallows to change.

Cullen should have expected the Champion's swift response to his warning, he should have anticipated that Hawke would storm into the Gallows the very next day, and he should have known she wouldn't be alone when she did, but his mind was so preoccupied in the quiet that he didn't notice the group of companions until they were right in front of him.

“Champion,” he quickly greeted, eying the rest of the group. “And you are with the captain. None to happy about the accusations against her, I'm sure.”

Aveline rubbed at her temple, fighting back a glare. “You could say that.”

Hawke had none of Aveline's discipline, stepping up to Cullen and getting right in his face. “The claims against her are complete garbage. Did you even bother to verify them before devising a plan to kick her out?”

It certainly wasn't _his_ plan, but Hawke had a point. “No,” he admitted, dropping his head just a little. “I didn't believe them myself, but felt my own word would be seen as simply trying to shirk a new responsibility.”

“Isn't that what you're trying to do anyways?” Varric chuckled. “I read that letter, too.”

Cullen held back a sigh and fully explained the situation, Hawke growing redder with rage the more details he gave. Her companions were as much family as Carver was, and no one messed with her family and got away with it. Having more or less decided Cullen had been on her side and not part of the plot to fire Aveline, Hawke nodded at the guard-captain and the two of them were off to Lowtown to find guardsman Brennan. Varric and Isabela, having been smirking since first spotting the knight-captain, stayed behind.

“He looks a little glum, don't you think?” Isabela hummed, leaning towards the dwarf and jutting a thumb at Cullen.

“A bit, sure,” Varric agreed, stroking his chin. “Maybe he's bored.”

Cullen frowned, irritated by being spoken of as though he weren't there. “I assure you, I have plenty to occupy me.”

“I'll bet,” Isabela laughed, nudging the archer.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” The templar was not liking the direction this conversation was going in.

The woman leaned in, bringing a hand to the side of her mouth. “Word is, you and your favorite puppy had a rather intimate conversation recently – and brazenly out in public, too.”

He furrowed his brow in irritation. “Despite whatever rumors you've heard of Fereldans, we do not all have dogs. The only half-way decent hound I've even seen in Kirkwall is the Champion's mabari, and I very well didn't have an _intimate conversation_ with him.”

“Yeah, Deshyr isn't much for conversation,” Varric relented. “Great at Diamondback, though.”

“What I said was _puppy_ , Knight-Captain,” Isabela reminded with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Now who do we know that's adorable, eager to please, sweet as sin, and owns the most heart-melting pout this side of the Waking Sea?”

“Or you could just recall who you've had public conversations with and which of those people we would have the slightest interest in.” Varric offered when the templar's confusion lingered.

Cullen felt his mouth go dry once he figured it out, knowing from the snickering the rogues were letting loose that his face must have heated as well. He swallowed past the lump in his throat before it could grow larger and schooled his expression. “I believe I know who you are referring to, but can't say I necessarily agree with your assessment of her.” Giving the pair a moment to cease their mirth at his expense, Cullen noticed he couldn't necessarily _disagree_ with their assessment either. “And what is it you think was discussed during this supposedly intimate conversation?”

“Well, our inside sources couldn't exactly _hear_ anything, what with the wind and all, but they saw plenty,” Isabela said with a lopsided grin. “You pulled puppy love aside and got her all blushing and giggly. She didn't say a thing the whole way back, stuck in her pretty little head and smiling.”

“Too bad the collection has already been sent to the printers. I could have worked this in and gotten a literal cliff-hanger at the end,” Varric muttered to himself, shaking his head in disappointment.

The templar narrowed his eyes suspiciously, looking past the pirate to the dwarf he so frequently forgot was also an author. “Collection of what?”

Varric flicked his eyes quickly to Isabela for help, but she only laughed. “Go ahead and tell him, Varric. I'm sure Ser Collin here will be flattered.”

“You only think that because its not _your_ head on the chopping block,” he muttered back.

“My name is _Cullen_ ,” the templar corrected. “Is it really so hard for you two to remember that?”

“Right, what did I say?” Isabela smiled deviously. “Anyways, Varric here included you in some recent literary work. He's not so great at creating characters, so pretty much everyone he knows is in at least one of his books.”

“Thanks for that, Rivaini,” Varric muttered with a halfhearted glare.

She bowed deeply, sweeping her hands to the side. “Captain Belladonna lives to serve.”

From what Cullen remembered of _Hard in Hightown_ , there wasn't a single line of templar presence and – though he wouldn't admit to reading the crime serial – he knew adding them so late in the story would seem strange. Still, the prospect of being mirrored in fiction made him curious as to how the author saw him and what personality trait would be amplified on the page. “You said a recent literary work?”

“A romance serial, if you can believe it,” Isabela laughed. “He got into the genre because of big girl's fumbling courtship with Donnic and – I like to think – my own raunchy friend-fiction.”

Before Cullen had a chance to voice any of the questions that swarmed him, Varric jumped in. “It's called _Swords and Shields!_ ” He paused long enough to shoot a firm look at the other rogue. “The knight-captain is a side character, hardly important, really. No one will recognize its you, so you don't need to worry about that.”

Isabela snorted. “Only because you changed the character's frame.” To illustrate her point, the pirate moved her hands through the air in an hourglass shape, raising an eyebrow at the templar as she did so.

He caught her meaning instantly and took a threatening step towards the author. “You made me a _woman_? Why would I be flattered by that?”

“I wasn't talking about her when I-” Isabela stopped abruptly when Varric elbowed her in the hip, the woman making a show of rubbing the sore area and turning away.

“Well, uh, because I only kept the most important thing – the personality.” Varric tried to explain and ease the anger he could feel rising in the man. “Knight-Captain Keelan Minaburn was transferred from Starkhaven, having to fight against the prejudice of the older knights and show them that she earned her title. She's short, but she's tough! Fierce and determined with no room for nonsense in the ranks.” He shrugged while taking a cautious step back. “Its a compliment! She's different so no one will notice, but I kept the best parts.”

Cullen slowly relaxed, realizing that the changes would mask whatever inspiration Varric pulled from him and, to be honest, it _was_ a little flattering to hear his personality described in such a way. Still, a romance? “You swear this character is in a supportive role only?”

Varric lifted his hands in surrender. “I swear on my tab at _The Hanged Man_ that Knight-Captain Keelan will never become romantically involved in any of my stories.”

Cullen nodded, as though granting permission after the fact, and sighed tiredly. “Good. That may well be the most realistic aspect of your literary world.”

Isabela and Varric shared a slightly concerned look after inspecting the suddenly weary templar. “We best try and catch up with Hawke,” Varric said quietly, motioning Isabela back. Again, Cullen nodded and the visitors left, making the entry yard silent once more.

The knight-captain never becoming romantically involved rung a little too close to home, despite the procedures in place to petition otherwise. Whereas before Cullen had thoroughly thought through the steps required to do so and how he might subvert Meredith to gain such approval, now it all just seemed like so much work. After his supposedly _intimate conversation_ , the whole procedure just didn't seem to be worth the effort anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. They don't know how to properly have a conversation.  
> I've actually had that heart vs head dialogue for Cullen for a while and was glad when I got the the 'break up' so I could use it. That is the only reason I was glad.
> 
> Anyways, for the roguish comic relief bit.  
> The dragon age wiki states that Swords and Shields is about a romance between the guard-captain and the knight-captain, but in Inquisition when Varric gives Cassandra the book, he mentions the knight-captain and Cassandra refers to the character as a female. Based on the cover art of the book, Aveline is clearly still in guard armor, so she is not the knight-captain. Others say the book is about Aveline and Donnic, and honestly I can not find actual documentation for either case. Whatever the canon version is, in this story, the knight-captain is a female Cullen and not involved with the guard-captain.
> 
> Keelan means 'slender' (she's petite) and Minaburn is a play on Rutherford. 'Ford' refers to a section of a river and 'Ruther' is that river. 'Burn' is a Scottish term referring to rivers as well and 'Mina' is just me shortenting 'Minanter', the large river that runs through the Free Marches and provides Starkhaven with most of its trade. See, I put way too much thought into things like this.


	37. Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get into the drama, I know a lot of you want something along these lines to occur:
> 
>  
> 
> <https://tokutenshi-doodles.tumblr.com/post/160288463794/thick-headed-knight-captain-cullen-from-my-da2-fic>  
> 
> 
> Now then, story time.

The Gallows had become a much darker place as of late. Apprentices were confined to their quarters and escorted to lessons, removing the concept of _free time_ altogether. Meredith claimed the unharrowed mages were too impressionable and wanted to limit their exposure to any others that might already be corrupted. Even during meals, the groups were carefully divided and dutifully watched. Because of this, Edan was forced to watch from afar as Ebrisa dusted off her fake smile while she assisted Bernice and spent her time in the dining hall pushing food around her tray.

Thinking the Harrowing would expose any maleficarum amongst the apprentices, Meredith pushed for more tests based as much upon age as skill. So, the night before Edan's eighteenth birthday, he was dragged from bed and sent into the Fade. He did quite well, defeating an uncommonly large rage demon in a decent amount of time and passing the Harrowing with far less fanfare than the accomplishment used to receive.

Edan didn't miss the disappointed grunts some of the templars made as they lead him to the mage wing with his meager belongings, knowing he had been anything but obedient in his younger years and that at least a few templars had a grudge against him for it. These were not templars Thrask would even consider approaching for the coalition.

Grace was delighted to see the Starkhaven lad join her wing, once again able to speak with him directly instead of passing coded messages through templar hands. The group had finally grown enough that they had arranged safe passage out of the Gallows for proper meetings away from prying eyes, but they always returned after, because they had more than their own freedoms in mind. Their mission ate up much of Edan's free time, making it nearly impossible to catch Ebrisa when she wasn't on some mission of her own. Being a junior enchanter kept her busy, and despite the yards having so few visitors she continued to maintain them, but somehow Ebrisa managed to volunteer even more hours to the Circle, making her time spent in the mage wing miniscule.

It was several weeks before Edan managed to catch up with her, following Ebrisa into her quarters with barely a sound and startling her by closing the door behind himself.

She squeaked in surprise as she spun around, eyes wide. She furrowed her brow after spotting the teen, confusion taking over her initial shiver of fear. “Edan? Did you need something?”

He plopped down on the foot of her bed, smirking a little. “We finally have a chance to talk after nearly two months of you going quiet and I don't get so much as a _hello_? You must be worse off than I thought.”

Ebrisa sighed a little, rubbing her forehead for a bit before dropping her hand tiredly. “I'm sorry. Did I ever congratulate you for passing your Harrowing? I just can't seem to focus these days.”

“Aye, that you can't.” Edan tilted his head curiously. “I remember you zoning out before, but you were drunk on happiness then. There's nothing happy about this bought.”

“What are you talking about?” Ebrisa lifted the corners of her mouth. “I'm wearing a smile.”

“Wearing one and actually smiling are two different things.” He frowned heavily as he looked around her room at her herbs, books, and flasks. _Work. Work. Work._ “Don't you keep anything fun around here? Is that thing that put you in such a good mood before gone?”

She dropped her smile for an instant as she moved to lean against the wall by her desk. “No, that thing is still here, but I can't act on it. He told me as much.”

Edan squinted slightly, studying the crack in the enchanter's facade before she corrected her smile. “He who told you as much what?”

Ebrisa hesitated. She knew Edan wouldn't turn her in, but she had never voiced these feelings out loud to anyone but the flower-weaving spirit. Would saying it in the waking world be beneficial or backfire? Well, it couldn't possibly hurt anymore than it already did. “I... I'm in love with someone.” She felt her cheeks heat as the declaration left her mouth, her lips curling into their first true smile in what felt like years. Warmth blossomed in her chest, her heart skipping a beat, and she closed her eyes to savor the feeling.

Edan stared at her, watching her entire demeanor shift. Her glow was back, as radiant as it had been when she first gained it, and he felt a rock slam into his insides. He didn't even need to ask who it was. “The knight-captain,” he growled, brogue thickening. “A templar, Ebrisa? Are you daft?!”

His angry words broke through the temporary bliss and Ebrisa snapped her eyes back open, blinking a few times as she reoriented herself with reality. “I must be,” she sighed, not bothering to adjust the mask Edan always managed to see through. “Cullen made it very clear he will follow the rules. That means nothing can come of this.” She looked like a puppy that had just been kicked by its owner, hurt and confused, but also so undeniably enamored with the source of her pain. It made Edan sick.

He jumped to his feet, slicing a hand through the air. “Then forget about him! It was foolish to choose to like him in the first place and even more so to wallow in pity when he does the thing all templars do – blindly follow orders.”

“I didn't _choose_ to love him, Edan,” Ebrisa defended, correcting his word choice to reflect the proper level of her feelings. “It happened over time, starting small and slowly nurtured until the tiny thing I didn't notice had bloomed bright and beautiful. I can't forget this feeling, Edan, and I wouldn't want to.”

“You can,” he insisted, taking a single step forward. “You can and you should, Ebrisa. Getting hung up on a templar will do you no good.”

The enchanter released a quiet, tired laugh. “I'm in love with Cullen, not a templar, but even if he wasn't one, I'm still a mage. I still couldn't act on these feelings. I still couldn't be loved in return.”

“You can,” Edan repeated, less aggressively this time. He watched the floor for a long while, gathering his resolve to continue. “Ebrisa... I...” He looked up, trying to catch the enchanter's eyes. “ _I_ love you.”

She didn't so much as blink at his admission, didn't hesitate a single moment before tilting her head just a bit and giving him a soft, sympathetic smile.

In an instant he was directly in front of her, his normal burr seemingly extending to every word, making his voice a rolling growl. “Don't you look at me like I don't understand what I'm saying. I know what I'm feeling, what I've _been feeling_ since you first took my hand and pulled me away from the caravan slaughter. Ebrisa, I love you.”

“This is a different kind of love,” she spoke gently, using the same voice she so often had with an upset Vemara, and the tone only seemed to anger Edan.

He slammed his palm against the wall beside her head, startling her enough to drop the almost condescending expression. “ _Its not_.”

Ebrisa found herself needing to raise her eyes to look at the mage towering over her, wondering in the back of her mind when Edan had grown so tall.

As if hearing her thoughts, he stepped closer, his body barely pressing against hers. “I'm not a child anymore...”

Panic rose up in Ebrisa's throat at the boy that was no longer a boy boxed her in. She'd always seen Edan as a little brother or thought herself his pseudo-mother and de facto guardian. She'd never even considered the possibility that he didn't see their relationship the same way.

Edan leaned in, his intention clear, and Ebrisa knew she couldn't get away short of hurting him. She made herself as flush against the wall as possible and twisted her head away, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping the Starkhaven man before her would take the hint. He did, but he didn't do so calmly.

“ _Right_. Of course.” He pulled back, stepping away from the enchanter and knocking her desk chair over with an exaggerated swat of his hand. It clattered loudly to the ground, but Edan cared little for the noise and what attention it might draw as he paced around the room. “Damn templars just have to ruin everything! He doesn't even _want_ you! I'm here, but you – damn it!” He swept an arm across her workbench, sending bottles and flasks crashing with no regard for what the sudden mixing of their various contents could do.

Ebrisa remained pressed to the wall, watching as the other mage tore her room apart and being unable to assemble her thoughts enough to speak. Edan had always had a temper, but he'd gotten a handle on it, at least she thought he had. A small, thankful voice whispered in the back of her mind that at least he hadn't turned his angry hands against her.

The door burst open and Ser Keran rushed in, taking a moment to assess the situation before catching Edan's arm. He leaned in, whispering harshly, but his hushed words seemed to do the trick and Edan calmed somewhat. Keran released the mage and once Edan was gone, he turned to Ebrisa with an apologetic half-smile. “I'll, um, I'll see if I can find some Tranquil to clean this.” He shot a weary look at the black vapors rising from the puddle on the floor. “You should probably wait outside.”

She nodded numbly, following the templar out and trying to get her mild shaking under control. Edan had always been hot-headed, but never outright violent. His sudden switch from hopeful to hateful had greatly rattled Ebrisa and she had been unable to stop the rush of fear that shot up her spine. No matter how surprised or frightened she may have been by Edan's reaction, she couldn't condemn him for it. In fact, if his love for her was truly anything like her own for Cullen, then she completely understood. Unlike Edan, however, her frustration had no outside figure it could fixate on and all of her anger and hatred was forced to turn inward.

If only she wasn't a mage...

But then, if she wasn't a mage, her family never would have sent her away.

Ebrisa would likely be the subject of wedding negotiations by now, her parents sifting through proposals and weeding out the ones that would do nothing to further the family name. They would find her a husband that raised them socially or increased their wealth or brought them some sort of tie to foreign royalty. A templar officer in a politically divided city-state from a family of farmers would be tossed aside on the first pass. Cullen wouldn't find her there. Love wouldn't find her there.

Her heart clenched painfully and her resolve to not cry weakened as she realized that had things been different, she still could not be with Cullen. If he weren't a templar or she weren't a mage, then they never would have met, and that thought hurt her even more than his rejection had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ebrisa did her best to keep busy, to occupy her hands and her mind so she wouldn't dwell on how her world had spiraled so out of control so quickly. Everything had changed, everyone had changed, she had changed, and she didn't know how to cope with any of it.

The Circle had lost what little light and levity it had. Meredith spent more time secluded in her office than ever before, and the templars under her more or less mimicked the distrust that radiated from the woman. Orsino was rapidly approaching desperation in his pleas for equality, his cool demeanor long since evaporated in face of the knight-commander's knuckling down, and had even gone so far as to openly protest in Hightown's square. Edan now fixed Ebrisa with a near-constant look of disapproval or disappointment – she could never discern which it was – and knew that when she rebuffed his feelings, she had lost her little brother forever.

She couldn't speak of a change in Cullen, because she had done her best to stay away. It pained her to do so, but Ebrisa feared what hearing his voice for more than a few words would do to her resolve. She wanted to respect his decision to remain professional, but knew that the longer she stood in his presence, the harder it would be to not reach out and touch him. She ducked behind corners when she saw him on patrol and made excuses for meetings she knew he would be at, feeling every bit the hypocrite because she knew how much it hurt when Cullen had acted similarly years ago.

Maker, she wasn't trying to hurt him.

Hurting Cullen was the farthest thing from her mind.

 

As a junior enchanter, Ebrisa was granted more leniency than harrowed mages and as an apparent favorite of Meredith's – something she still could not quite figure out, given the stories she heard about the woman these days – she was given even more. It was strange how little the sterner handling of mages impacted her own day-to-day life and she tried her best to not flaunt the freedoms she still had. This was another reason she spent almost all of her available time doing something productive for the Gallows, to make it seem as though she was acting on orders and under just as much scrutiny as the others. What little time outside her room she didn't spend working, she spent in the chapel. This was the one place she felt she could let her mind wander, the one place she didn't have to worry about keeping a smile, because here she spoke to the one being who could see her soul.

That evening's reading had a sparse congregation and Ebrisa the only mage amongst them, but that had become common. She sat in the back pew, both hoping and fearing that Cullen would show up and take a seat beside her, boxing her in until she talked to him. He wouldn't do that, just like he hadn't any of the days prior, because being professional was his idea, because it was him that wanted to follow the rules, because he didn't care for her as she did him.

Sister Kendra lead the small group through Transfigurations 12, Ebrisa quietly following along. She wanted to sing as loudly as before, wanted to feel the Chant resonate in her bones, but she couldn't, not yet. Not when she felt the words condemned her.

“ _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.”_

She did feel tempted, sitting in the chapel and wishing Cullen was beside her. Maybe he would touch her hand, like back in the Chantry months ago, or look at her with a smile or simply sing the Chant at her side, harmonizing with her own voice. It wouldn't take much to shatter her resolve and the mage imagined that very thing happening. She'd entwine her fingers with his to draw his attention, then pull on his hand to bring him closer until she could tilt up her face and kiss him. To break the Chantry's rules in one of it's sanctified chapels during a service in front of a member of the clergy was a terrible thing to envision, and Ebrisa felt both wicked and thrilled by the idea.

_“My Maker, know my heart:”_

Ebrisa could hide her feelings from the templars, could keep it secret from the mages, but the Maker knew everything. He knew the lengths she had gone in the name of love, knew what she was willing to do for Cullen's well being. She had been lucky that the spirit who aided her in healing was truly a goodly sort and not a demon, because becoming an abomination was a trifle in the face of letting Cullen die. Her morals, her life, her soul – Ebrisa would sacrifice all of it to save her heart.

“ _My Creator, judge me whole:_ ”

She did not fear judgment as much as she knew she should, at least not for herself. She would be locked up, or made Tranquil, or perhaps – given how things had deteriorated as of late – be executed as an example. Rules were there for a reason, but rules on feelings were so very hard to enforce and Vemara had never understood why they were there in the first place. Looking back, the elven girl really had the right of it all along. Ebrisa didn't fear retribution against herself, but the notion that Cullen could be punished for simply being the object of her affection kept her tongue in place. His own loyalties would be called into question, his rank striped, his career ruined... and those were the best options.

“ _O Maker, hear my cry:”_

Ebrisa wanted to tell Cullen how she felt, but knew that wouldn't change a single thing. All she would accomplish with her confession would be putting the man in a difficult and awkward position, so she kept the words to herself. They swelled in her chest, at times making her shine brighter than the sun and at others bringing her to the verge of tears because she could not voice them. On those days, she thought back to her original assessment after Feynriel was made Tranquil: it seemed a rather cruel thing to show someone love only to rip it away.

“ _For You are the fire at the heart of the world_ ,” Sister Kendra directed, the reading drawing to a close. _“And comfort is only Yours to give._ ”

As always, Ebrisa sat still with her eyes closed and waited for the room to clear of the other occupants so she could collect her thoughts and get her calm smile back in place. When she opened her eyes in the silence that followed, she found the chapel had not truly emptied and that the cleric had pulled up her hood, busying herself with changing out the candle stubs with fresh ones and breaking away the built up wax from the rod iron rack.

It was a curious sight, as the lay sisters never lingered in the Gallows longer than needed, and Ebrisa felt she might take advantage of the rare chance to speak with her. It would raise too many questions to request leave to the Chantry, which is why Ebrisa hadn't approached Meredith to do so, but she needed to talk to someone in the clergy.

“Sister Kendra?” Ebrisa moved out of the pew and towards the candles, the hooded figure stilling its work. “I know you do not have much time if you hope to join the templars shift change back to the Chantry, but I was hoping you might be able to spare a few moments?”

The sister turned, her face mostly obscured in shadow, but just enough features were visible for Ebrisa to know this wasn't Kendra. Had there been a second sister during the service? How little attention had Ebrisa really paid?

“What can I do for you, Enchanter Ebrisa?” The unfamiliar woman had an Orlesian accent and bore a smile that didn't find its way into her voice.

The fact that this stranger knew her name made the mage uneasy, but she continued. “There is a conflict of faith I must address. I know lay sisters can not hear confessions, and this isn't truly a confession... I do not seek absolution for this act.”

That peaked the cleric's interest and she silently motioned to a corner of the small room so they might have some measure of privacy. She kept her back to the wall and an eye on the door, waiting for the mage to speak.

“I... I was raised by a very devote family,” Ebrisa began, not certain how much detail she should give. “The laws, the rules, the restrictions – I accepted everything without a second thought. I often find myself defending the Chantry and the templars to the apprentices in class who murmur against them, but recently... recently, I... I find it difficult to see the righteousness in one of them.”

“You find fault in Meredith,” the sister guessed, encouraging the mage to continue.

“What?” Ebrisa looked up from her hands, finding sharp eyes watching her from within the darkness of the hood. “Well... I can't deny the knight-commander has been harsh, but after the phylactery vault was destroyed, I can't say I'm surprised either.” She shook her head, breaking from the razor-like gaze but knowing it was still on her. “I was referring to one of the rules... its not new by any means, likely one of the pillars of the Circle, and I never had issue with it before, but now... I... I find myself breaking it and not caring a single bit.”

The sister took her time answering, carefully measuring her words. “What rule is this, that has you questioning your faith in the Chantry?”

Ebrisa became nervous. In a confessional she had anonymity and the knowledge that even if the priest on the other side of the screen could identify her, they were sworn to keep her secrets. Would this lay sister do the same, or would she run off and turn her in? She needed to be cautious, here especially. “That...” She worried on her lip as her cheeks reddened. “That mages can't... be in love.”

A soft chuckle left the sister and the smile she had been wearing changed ever so slightly. “I do not recall love being condemned anywhere in the Chant, but I do know of a few rules pertaining to interactions and relationships between mages and those who guard them.” She paused, receiving a confirmation from the way Ebrisa shuffled on her feet and fidgeted with her hands. “I must admit, I was not expecting this from one so firmly stationed in the knight-commander's good graces. Ah, unless she is the one with whom you-”

“Sweet merciful Andraste, no!” Ebrisa exclaimed, face burning hotter than the candles on the wall.

The sister laughed at the reaction, tilting her head back just enough for Ebrisa to catch a flash of short, red hair. “I will not press for the identity, then, as it gives me plausible deniability.” After taking a moment to regain her earlier calm, but keeping the newer smile, she continued. “But this feeling of love has you troubled?”

“It does, and it doesn't,” Ebrisa mumbled, rubbing at her forehead. “I know I shouldn't feel this way about him, but I can't stop – I don't _want_ to stop. I wake up each morning knowing he is under the same roof, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, and my heart fills to bursting. He is so close, but its not enough. I want to touch him, to hold him, to... to... kiss... him...” She dropped her eyes to her feet, digging the toe of her slipper into the grout line of the tiled floor. “But I know I can't do those things, and it makes me wonder why I would be allowed to think about them at all. Why do I love him so much if I'm not allowed to be with him? Why does the Maker allow these feelings to form in the first place if nothing can become of them?”

“The Maker gave us free will so that we might think and feel and live as we please, hoping we choose to follow His word on our own and earn His approval.” The Orlesian woman leaned in a little. “He knows our hearts, but no one controls them save us.”

“It's a test then?”

“Tests have right and wrong answers. Tests can be passed or failed.” The sister tilted her head slightly, angling her shadowed face closer. “Tell me, do you feel as though you failed?”

Ebrisa's upbringing told her she had. She was doing the wrong thing by trying to be involved with a templar, because she would distract him from his duty and compromise his integrity. A templar's duty was sacred, they did the Maker's work, and to disrupt that in any fashion was surely a sin in and of itself. Even as her mind recited the ways in which she was failing, her heart spoke for her instead.

“No.”

The sister straightened, pleased with the answer. “Love is one of the Maker's greatest gifts and nothing to be ashamed of. Have you spoken about this to the mysterious object of your affection?”

The mage shook her head, twisting her signet ring worriedly. “I can't say anything like that out loud. It would only get him in trouble and I couldn't bare it if he came to any sort of harm because of me.”

“If you can't say it, then sing it.”

“What?” Ebrisa lifted her eyes back up, curious as to where the other woman was going with this.

“Love songs are so common place that most people think little of hearing one,” the sister explained. “You can convey your feelings to him in a crowd of people and no one would suspect a thing. If there's even the slightest chance that he shares your feelings, then he will surely catch your meaning amongst the lyrics.”

It was a strange idea, yet also somehow brilliant. Hiding a confession in verse and masking the intent would remove all the anxiety of voicing it. She could tell the whole world, let her heart sing like it had been aching to do, and no one would be the wiser. There was just one problem.

“I don't know any,” she lamely admitted. While Merrill had taught her many Dalish tunes and some of Hawke's other companions slipped her sheet music to further her repertoire beyond Chantry music, she had not yet been handed anything even remotely romantic to learn.

“Then write one.”

Ebrisa stared at the cleric as though she'd just suggested fighting a dragon with her bare hands.

The horrified disbelief earned her another chuckle. “It's not as difficult as you may think and the resulting song would be filled with your own, true feelings. This is better, I think, than digging up some tavern ditty from the locals.”

Again, a very insightful idea. Ebrisa looked at the other woman curiously, trying to see through the shadows and wondering what sort of life she had prior to coming to the Chantry. The clergy rarely gave advice that didn't have at least a little to do with the Maker's word or Andraste's example.

“Start and end with love,” the sister whispered as she began to move away, “and everything else falls into place.” After imparting that final bit of encouragement, the hooded figure disappeared out the doorway and continued her task without any further notice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Edan" is a Celtic name meaning "fire", and our hot-head really displayed that this chapter.


	38. Best Served Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter today, but things are about to get crazy up in here the next few chapters.

Though she had spent many years learning the harp and studying compositions, Ebrisa had no clue how to even begin composing on her own. She spent fruitless nights plucking at her harp in the Fade and trying to piece together notes that weren't already famously arranged. It seemed the better approach to create the tune prior to lyrics, as wandering eyes in her unguarded quarters would focus on the notes in the music staff instead of the words hiding between the bars.

Mother, Sympathy, and Belief were likewise useless in the arts – Belief silently disapproving of the entire thing – but they could tell how important the task was to the mage. Mother begrudgingly allowed more helpful spirits into Ebrisa's dreams after thorough scrutiny and stood close by as they assisted the mage, prepared to eject them at a moment's notice. Ebrisa was grateful for the help, but found it odd that the rose-auraed spirit that had started all of this never made an appearance. She'd asked Mother about her once, but the protective spirit merely shook her head helplessly.

 

Ebrisa's personal quest helped distract her from the concerning whispers circulating the Gallows. The Left Hand of the Divine had been in Kirkwall – Hawke had more or less confirmed this last Sunday, though didn't go into much detail. Sebastian had been there that week too, but at least Ebrisa could tell from the way he evaded that he was doing so to keep the mage from worrying. A few days after that, Ebrisa learned the reason from a pair of gossiping templars: Divine Justinia V was going to call an Exalted March on Kirkwall. That alone was terrifying, but then others began saying Meredith had gone over the grand cleric's head and asked officials in Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment.

It was possible that she did so in an attempt to save as many innocents as she could, suggesting as alternative to sacking the entire city. If not and Meredith was seeking permission from a higher authority, that had to mean she had already been denied by Elthina. That the knight-commander felt the Gallows were so beyond saving that it needed to be culled was ridiculous and Ebrisa had trouble accepting that the woman had so little faith left in her charges. Then again, she hadn't wanted to believe the rumors about Ser Alrik's Tranquil Solution either, and that had been real enough, even if the idea ended before it really began.

The already tense air in the Gallows increased, drawing taut with each passing day until even the slightest error on either side set off a violent and loud reaction like an overtightened string snapping from a careless pluck. The quarrels were quickly squashed – always in favor of the templars – and the tension would slowly build back up until another incident inevitability started the whole thing over.

The not knowing was driving everyone mad. Mages wondered if they would live to see the next season, templars wondered if they would be dismissed for failing their duties, and the city wondered how much collateral damage they could really handle. Everyone was on edge, everyone was looking for some sort of certainty, and no one expected a peaceful resolution. Despite the efforts Ebrisa made to try and keep her students calm and quell any minor conflicts before aggression was used, the situation was ultimately out of her hands and to keep herself from fretting constantly, Ebrisa focused on her secret love letter. In that, at least, she found a measure of peace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
It was unfortunate that they had to resort to things like this, but if the rumors were true, then Meredith had to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Someone had tipped her off about the meetings in Hightown and just the night before, the Champion of Kirkwall herself burst into the small square with her massive sword drawn. The coalition members scattered as best they could, some of the older templars and mages staying behind to ensure the majority escaped and their sacrifice would not be easily forgotten.

If Meredith was already poisoning Hawke against them, then they stood little chance of gaining her support, and they needed it to validate their position with the grand cleric. Again, the knight-commander was forcing their hand. They needed more time, but with the Champion already working against them and giving the small groups she discovered no chance to explain, they had little choice but to resort to desperate measures.

That was the reason Edan now stood over the unconscious templar, bound by both ropes and blood magic. He felt a little bad about it as Ser Carver had always been rather decent to the mages, but he was the only person they could get a hold of that was connected to the Champion. If there had been more time, Thrask might have even invited Carver to join them voluntarily instead of knocking him out and dragging him down the coast as a bargaining chip. Well, he wasn't too likely to assist them now, not that he could say anything at the moment.

It felt so strange to be out of the Circle during the day and Edan found himself staring at the mountains. He tried not to think too much about the last time he had traveled them, tried not to remember Ebrisa grabbing his wrist with one hand and scooping Vemara under her arm with the other as she ran, tried not to dwell on the fact that the thing they had been running from was something he was now guilty of.

Grace had taught all of the mages in the coalition at least a little blood magic, claiming it was for protection only. He was hesitant to learn, knowing it was a small step that lead to a big fall, but Alain had known a few spells for years and hadn't seemed to change at all. Alain had been able to resist using the magic and assured Edan it was only a precaution, so there was some comfort in that.

They had been waiting on the sandy peninsula for what felt like hours for Hawke and their absence had surely set off all sorts of alarms in the Gallows by now. Edan cast a look over his shoulder at the fortress in the water and smirked, imagining Meredith storming around the halls, barking out orders and trying to arrange search parties with templars who weren't there either.

“Alright, who wants the first ass-kicking?!” Hawke bellowed, seething with rage as she stormed into the clearing, a few of her companions trailing behind. She scanned the group until she found her brother laying at Edan's feet, then zeroed in on Ser Thrask as he and Grace approached. “I swear if you've hurt even one hair on his idiotic head, I will get Isabela to keelhaul you with her new ship.”

“Oy,” Isabela huffed in protest. “That's not exactly the sort of christening I had in mind.”

Thrask, ever calm, ever diplomatic, tried his best to plead their case to Hawke, but she refused to hear any of it until her brother was released, and that's when everything went wrong. Grace, forsaking the greater good and determined to have her revenge on the woman that slew her lover six years ago, turned on Thrask and everyone else, killing the templar to fuel her blood magic. Templars and mages sprang into action, knowing there was nothing else to do, and rushed to attack the Champion's party. Only a few stayed back, inexperienced in battle like Edan or simply terrified of fighting like Alain.

Hawke and her people focused on Grace, knowing from how she barked orders that the mage was the leader and hoping to stop the whole mess as quickly as possible. The tattooed woman went down after a grueling fight, sometimes pulling energy from her own weakened people to last just a little bit longer against the figure she blamed for everything terrible in her life. When Grace finally hit the ground and stopped moving, the fighting stopped as well. Templar and mage alike looked to one another, silently asking what was to be done now that both their leaders were gone.

“The Circle here is so much worse than Starkhaven's ever was,” Alain mumbled in the quiet that followed as he stared at Grace's blood covered body, knowing most of it wasn't hers. “It seemed like hers was the only way out.” He glanced at Hawke then, nervous at what the still seething woman would do now. “I... I'm sorry, Grace used blood magic to hold him. There's no other way to wake him up.” Alain knelt down beside Carver, pulling out a knife and cutting through the rope before running the blade along his own flesh and breaking the spell.

Carver coughed violently, scrambling to his feet and swatting at the air as he rose. “Get out of my-!” He paused, looking around and realizing he was definitely not in the Gallows with Thrask blocking his path. “What? Where am I?”

Hawke's rage subsided briefly, a sigh of relief silently escaping her before she pulled on a smirk. “I'm surprised at you, baby brother. You can't take on a measly dozen templars and sprinkling of maleficarum on your own?”

He turned at her voice, hazy mind focusing, and returned the smirk. “Yes, well, I had no reason to think they'd turn on me.”

“Wouldn't be much of a betrayal if you saw it coming.” Hawke assessed her brother quickly, looking for any sign of harm.

The sound of clanking armor echoed off the boulders along the path and the remaining group looked towards the noise as a contingent of templars approached. There was a gaunt man leading them in simple, dirty leathers that Edan thought he may have seen once or twice, but he ignored him and the conversation that started in favor of glaring at the man beside the stranger.

“Champion,” Cullen began cautiously as he tried to evaluate the situation, “Samson never said you were involved in this.”

“ _Involved_ is a pretty strong word,” Hawke muttered, folding her arms in irritation.

“I trust you were here to stop these traitors, not join them?”

She snorted. “Yeah, cause I think blood mages who kidnap my brother are just the best sort of company to keep.”

Alain came to her defense, pleading with the knight-captain and calling him s _er_ as though he hadn't been working to overthrown Meredith and her supporters for years. It made Edan sick to see him flip loyalties so quickly. Didn't he know there was no going back to the life he had?

Cullen grunted, seemingly sharing Edan's disgust with the cowardly attempt to play both sides, and signaled his men to arrest the remaining coalition members. “Take him away.” The knight-captain shook his head drawing his eyes over the sliced palms of the mage corpses and the dead abominations in twisted plate armor, memories of Kinloch Hold flooding his mind. “These templars are spoiled,” he began bitterly. “If they had witnessed what I saw in Fereldan, they'd know to never trust a mage.” His eyes widened slightly, as though realizing something from his own words, but he quickly set his shoulders and continued to direct the templars he brought with him.

Edan stared at him, ignoring his former allies as they were bound. _Never trust a mage_? Had the knight-captain really just said that? Ebrisa was in love with a man like this? A man that couldn't even fathom the idea of trusting her? How little did Cullen really think of her? Had he been toying with her, leading her on, so that he could purposefully break her heart?

Fury built inside the mage as he slipped the blade from his belt, waiting until the knight-captain met his eyes before dragging it across his flesh. There was no going back for any of them, he knew that, but if he was going to die at the hands of a templar, he was going to take a very specific one with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Cullen leaned against the wall just outside the chapel's entrance, tugging at his old armor and trying to get it to stop pinching. Normally he would not have bothered to send his properly fitting set to be cleaned, taking the time to do the task himself, but after returning to the Gallows with the remaining prisoners and reporting to Meredith beside the Champion, he couldn't get away from the blood covered suit fast enough.

It had all happened so fast. As soon as Cullen recognized the Starkhaven mage as one of Ebrisa's friends, Edan flew into a murderous rage. He pushed the others away with blood magic and rushed past both Hawke and Samson, tackling Cullen to the ground with a surprising force that knocked the air right out of him and made his skull thud against the packed sand. Once the mage had him pinned, Edan seemed to forget about the concept of magic all together and pressed the already stained blade against Cullen's exposed throat.

They wrestled with the small weapon while the others came back around and the initial burst of power Edan displayed began to give way as Cullen's physical strength got the upper hand and he turned the blade away from himself. Away from himself, and into Edan. It was such a small blade that a single stab shouldn't have done much, but the mage wasn't wearing armor and the thrust hit high in his torso, slipping between his ribs. Edan gasped in shock, wheezing at the pain as the blood poured out and splashed on the templar below him. The mage kept his scowl in place, even as shock spread over Cullen's face, and leaned in to hiss one final thing before collapsing.

 

Cullen brushed his hand over his breastplate, wiping at an imaginary spec of blood despite wearing a completely different set of armor. It was only a matter of time before Meredith determined she had gotten all the information she could about the conspiracy and sentenced the captured mages and templars both. The mages, he was certain, would not be permitted to live and it was likely Edan knew that as well. Still, there was a difference between sanctioned execution and what had happened on the coast.

Much as the entire Circle knew how close Ebrisa was to Vemara, they were similarly aware of Edan. Meredith called Ebrisa into her office and delivered the news herself, giving the mage details in hopes that knowing the teen was a maleficar and working against the well-being of the Gallows might soften the blow of his death. When Ebrisa left the Templar Hall with a calm expression, Meredith assumed she had been correct and brushed the matter aside so that she could focus on finding Orsino's hand in the conspiracy, but she hadn't been.

Cullen felt like the world's biggest coward, hiding outside the chapel as Ebrisa sat within and cried. He hated the sound, but he stayed. He wanted to comfort her, to give her a shoulder to cry on like he had before, but he feared what she would say if she saw him. She needed someone to talk to, to help her work through the loss, but she didn't need him. He couldn't help her, not when he was the reason she was in pain.

So he stood close enough that he could hear her, but far enough that she didn't know he was there, and listened to her quiet sobs and mumbled bits of broken Chant. He hated the sound, but he hated himself for causing it even more as her friend's final words echoed in his head.

_'You don't deserve her.'_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally wrote Ebrisa's song. It took me forever and I was getting worried, until I realized two things. One – Ebrisa hasn't written poetry or lyrics before, so it could be terrible without issue. Two – I can totally just use a preexisting song as a base. So, I took the tune and rhythm of 'Rogue Heart' from the DA2 soundtrack and wrote my own lyrics. The song is a stringed accompaniment and has nothing to do with love, so it seemed like a good one to use for my purposes.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLTeHQ2LIy4


	39. Parallels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day to TheCrzyWheaten and all the other hard working mama's who have spent their precious spare time and moments of quiet reading my stories. The papa's too, but this isn't their day. (Oh, crap. Unless TheCrzyWheaten is a papa?! uh... your words just sounded so feminine that I assumed... oh dear.)

It had taken time, but Meredith was now certain that the templars she still commanded were loyal to the Order and the invasive, individual reviews were finally over. The Gallows more or less returned to whatever semblance of normal it had been allowed in recent months with a few changes. For one, bunk inspections were to be conducted every day to ensure secret missives and contraband did not accumulate and spark further fool-hardy plans, and for two, those searches were to be done by the knight-lieutenants and Cullen, as the corporals responsible for each section of the barracks were too far from Meredith's inner circle to be trusted with it. After all, if they had been doing the inspections correctly in the first place, then the coalition might not have been able to recruit so many.

The officers divided and conquered each morning, annoyed by the new task but knowing Meredith would be furious if it wasn't done properly. They worked systematically, each checking a bunk by themselves and waiting in the corridor until the others had finished the section before moving on the the next. They were sure to rotate locations from day to day to be certain nothing was missed and no one was being bribed into looking the other way, something else Meredith was concerned with. It didn't take too long when each officer really only had a handful of rooms to inspect, but it still bit into their day and held back their other duties.

On this morning Cullen had the unfortunate task of inspecting Garret's bunk, as the bearded man always seemed to have something amiss with his bedding or section of the foot locker. It was never anything to get written up about, but Cullen tired of constantly repeating himself to the same person. On days like these, he almost felt sorry for Carver who was assigned the bed below Garret's and what he must put up with nightly.

Like every time before, Garret had failed with a minor infraction. Cullen rolled his eyes and pushed past the recruit to properly tuck in the sheets himself, pausing as his hands hit something solid beneath the mattress. He fixed a firm look at Garret as he removed the offending object, watching the other man's reaction for any sign of panic, but he only smiled.

It was a hardbound book with a single feminine figure on the cover, giving Cullen just enough information at a glance to know it hadn't come from the library. He frowned disapprovingly at Garret, pointing the book in his direction. “This is certainly non-curriculum.”

Garret held back a smirk and shrugged nonchalantly. “Doesn't mean I can't learn a few things from it.” Behind him, Carver held his face in his hands and mumbled out a very tired ' _idiot'_.

Thinking he might be jumping to conclusions, Cullen cracked open the book and skimmed over a page so he could properly reprimand Garret. The last thing he wanted was to lose more templars, especially to false accusations.

 

_She gasped softly as the templar stepped closer, backing her into the shadowy alcove of the meager chapel. “Ser Hafterford...”_

_“Is that all I am to you, Risa?” The man murmured, a twinge of hurt in his voice. “Just another templar?”_

_“No, Collin, you're everything to me,” she corrected with a blush, arching herself away from the wall and pressing into his touch. “Its just that, what if the knight-commander finds us? You could get exiled or worse. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me.”_

_“To the Void with Merewin and her blasted rules!” Collin growled, burying his face in the crook of the enchantress's neck. The smell of her lavender scented hair soothed his frustration and he planted a small trail of kisses up her milky skin. “She may lead the templars here, but it is you that truly commands me. My thoughts, my dreams, my heart... I surrender it all to you.”_

_Risa whimpered as the sweet brushes of the man's lips became firmer and more heated. “Collin... not here. We can't.” The mage ignored her own protest even as she spoke it, turning her head to expose more flesh while her fingers blindly searched for the templar's armor clasps. “If someone catches us...”_

_He pulled away just a bit, taking a moment to appreciate the contrast of the newly formed red marks against her pale neck. “Then they will be struck dumb with envy.”_

 

Cullen slammed the book closed, thinking he'd gathered all the information he needed to properly file the minor violation report, but then the names on the page came back to him. Collin Hafterford and Enchanter Risa? Hadn't Isabela called him Collin just recently? He stared down at the cover and really looked at the illustration. The female was dressed in a corset similar to what the mages wore with long strips of fabric underneath that did little to actually cover her and he supposed were meant to be Circle robes. In one hand she held a staff rather suggestively and the other rested by her head, stylized wisps of light and flame haloing her fingers while long, blonde curls flowed all around her. His eyes flicked down to the bottom of the cover, reading the author's name for the first time.

_Varric Tethras_.

His face heated – from anger, embarrassment, or the scene he'd read, he wasn't sure – and the knight-captain finished the rest of the inspection wordlessly. Once the barracks were cleared, Cullen took the confiscated book with him across the harbor and stormed into _The Hanged Man_. Fear flashed across Corff's face, thinking the tavern was being raided, and he scrambled to hide some of his more incriminating drink concoctions. To his relief, the knight-captain was not only alone, but seemed to have something far more important to deal with and went straight for the stairs.

“This is unacceptable!” Aveline bellowed from the suite, slamming a hand on the table.

“Hey, you said you didn't care if I wrote romance,” Varric defended. “You basically gave me permission to pursue this.”

“That's because I thought you wouldn't do it if you couldn't get my goat.” The guard-captain straightened, her cheeks flushing . “You said yourself it took the fun out of it.”

“I think you're forgetting how much fun writing smut is, big girl,” Isabela laughed, propping her feet on the table. A marble slipped out and rolled across the floor, causing a momentary break in the conversation as they stared at it. Isabela sighed and began to unbuckle her boots to ensure Merrill hadn't dropped any more of the things inside when she wasn't looking.

The quiet was disrupted by another loud slam, this time from Cullen throwing the book he was carrying on the slabbed table. His seemingly sudden appearance made the group jump, but Aveline was the first to recover. “Knight-Captain? What's the meaning of this?”

“That's what _I_ want to know,” Cullen growled, narrowing his eyes on the slightly uncomfortable looking dwarf. “You said you were writing something called _Swords and Shields_ and that the knight-captain would only be a side character. _This_ is not what you assured me.”

Varric lifted the cover and read the personalized message he wrote in it just a few days before. ' _Thanks for all your help! Couldn't have done it without you.'_ He sighed and thumped his head against the back of his chair, wondering which of his inside sources had messed up. “I should have known giving them copies was a bad idea.”

“Wait, you knew he was writing _Swords and Shields_?” Aveline turned an incredulous eye to Cullen. “You didn't stop him? Or _warn me?”_

The templar shot her a similarly annoyed glance. “I barely see the dwarf. When he confessed, he said it was already in publishing. You spend so much time with him, but couldn't tell what he was doing right beneath your nose?” He snorted and rolled his eyes. “If you're so blind, perhaps keeping you in the guard was a mistake after all.”

Aveline tensed, squaring off with the templar and cracking her neck to the side when he didn't back down.

“Now, now,” Isabela slipped in between them, boot half off and hands up in subjugation. “Let's not be like that. We're all captains here.”

“You're not a captain, Isabela,” Aveline deadpanned.

“I've got a ship,” the pirate protested. “That means I'm halfway there.”

“Yes, all you need is a host of men under you. Something you're quite familiar with.”

Isabela feigned a gasp. “Are you trying to besmirch my honor? Because let me tell you, people have done a lot worse to it.”

Cullen ignored the women, letting them bicker back and forth as he returned his attention to the author who was trying to sneak away. “You swore the knight-captain would not be romantically involved in any of your stories, dwarf.”

Varric dropped back into his seat, disappointed Isabela's distraction hadn't worked nearly well enough. Maybe they should have just let Cullen and Aveline duke it out and slipped away during that. “The knight-captain doesn't,” he said with an awkward laugh in his voice. He tapped the book in front of him, small grin in place. “Ser Collin isn't an officer.”

That threw Cullen more than he cared to admit, feeling slighted for the character being a rank and file templar. “But he is... _me_... isn't he?” He dropped his eyes just a bit in embarrassment.

“This is a companion piece to _Hard in Hightown_ and _Swords and Shields_ , so it shares a lot of the same characters,” Varric began cautiously. “Knight-Captain Keelan Minaburn? She's in here. Guard-Captain Arline Hendallen? From time to time. Guardsman Donnen Brennokovic?” He made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Naw, he's too old for this shit.”

That made Cullen begin to feel ridiculous for his anger and his assumption. Varric already had a version of him in his stories and its not like he read enough of the book to find a physical description of Collin. All he had to go on was the name and the fact that the character was infatuated with a blonde mage. Was he just drawing conclusions because he felt it paralleled him too much? It was exaggerated, sure, and he'd never said anything even remotely close to what was written on the page, but still...

“Oh, don't you try and weasel out of that one,” Isabela grunted, trying to remove herself from the firm headlock Aveline had her in. “Of course its him!”

The templar snapped his focus back on the dwarf, eyes narrowing once again. “And Enchanter Risa?”

“Enchantress,” Varric corrected. “She's a woman, so it's enchantress.”

Cullen fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Enchanter is used for any harrowed mage who instructs another, regardless of gender.”

“Yeah, but _enchantress_ sounds sexier.” Varric grinned widely as a small blush graced the templar's angry face, knowing Cullen at least unconsciously agreed. “And do you _really_ need me to answer that?” He glanced down at the cover and was pleased to see Cullen follow suit.

Cullen could guess the real-world inspiration easily enough, but part of him didn't want to believe it. Part of him hoped that despite the jabs these two rogues made, they didn't really suspect anything was going on between himself and Ebrisa, because there definitely wasn't.

“It's that Trevelyan girl, isn't it?” Aveline remarked as she looked over their shoulders to inspect the illustration. She had released Isabela, but held her blue scarf high in the air and out of the pirate's reach. “I should count myself fortunate that you didn't give my cover a similar treatment.”

“That's because your story is about warriors. What self respecting warrior would go into battle in a chainmail bikini?” Varric smirked at the red-head, hoping he was finally winning her over to his side. “ _Silk and Steel_ here though? A soft, innocent, vulnerable mage and a sturdy, hardened templar. Its a lot less fighting and a lot more, well... _The Randy Dowager Quarterly_ did give it five scarves fluttered in shock out of five.”

“Five?” Aveline frowned slightly. “ _Swords and Shields_ only got a three...”

Isabela snatched her scarf back in the moment of distraction, standing on the table in triumph with her hair a mess and boot still scrunched below her knee. She raised a brow and regarded the other woman. “And what were _you_ doing reading _The Randy Dowager_? Wait, is that how you found out about the book?”

Aveline flushed scarlet and began to sputter out a response, but her fragmented words were completely cut off by the momentarily silent templar. “This is complete slander.”

“What? Nonsense.” Varric crossed his arms. “When its in print, its libel.” Cullen locked eyes with him, clearly unamused, but no longer seething. “Right, not the point.”

“Do you realize what sort of damage you could cause with this?” Cullen continued. “The Gallows are under enough scrutiny as it is and if anyone suspects Ebrisa is anything but loyal to the Chantry and the Circle...”

“What's the big deal?” Isabela sighed, plopping down on the center of the table and flipping through the book. “ _“I'm sorry, Risa,” Collin whispered, as though fearful a louder volume would send the liquid sadness in her eyes cascading down her beautiful face. “I shouldn't have acted so jealous after I saw you with Carter. Can you ever forgive me?”_

_The enchantress beamed at him, radiant even in her grief. “Oh, Collin, of course I forgive you.”_

_He captured her pouty lips in a gentle kiss, but the thought of losing her to another man spurred on his desire to dominate her. Collin lifted Risa to sit on her desk, ignoring her gasp of surprise and the fluttering of pages as the movement knocked the stack of books he had carried in for her tumbling to the floor.'_ ”

Cullen's face burned as he tore the book from her hands, ceasing her reading. “Stop that.”

“Why are you so worked up? It's _fiction,_ sweetheart.” Isabela leaned in, smiling mischievously at the templar's reaction. “Or is it?”

“Of course it is,” he snapped back, tucking the book securely under his arm to prevent the pirate from reading any more of it out loud. “Just so long as everyone knows that.” Cullen leveled one last firm look of disapproval at Varric before leaving, exiting the tavern with considerably less confidence than he entered it.

“But you know,” Varric drawled as he smiled, “every bit of fiction has at least one grain of truth to it.”

Before Isabela could agree, Aveline cut in. “I think that one has a whole silo's worth.”

The rogues stared at her, surprise slowly morphing into laughter. “Nice one!” Varric slapped his knee. “Gotta say, I didn't think you had it in you, Aveline.”

The guard-captain gave him a small smirk. “You forget that I was married to a templar. I know a sworn man in denial when I see one.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Despite Ebrisa's protesting, despite the promises made early on, Meredith was now determined to use the wyvern venom for combat. Solivitus had been experimenting with it for a while and had finally developed an additive that would prevent the venom from loosing its potency so quickly on contact with the air, allowing the mixed substance to be used on weapons for about five deadly minuets of combat. It made Ebrisa ill to think about, but at least the knight-commander wasn't allowing Solivitus to sell any of it. He did prepare to sell large quantities of the antidote Ebrisa devised, however, and as the only proprietor of the cure he could charge whatever price he wanted. That made Ebrisa ill, too.

“So how does this work exactly?” The newly reinstated Samson asked from beside the mage, one of the templars working as escort for that week's harvesting. “You... ring a bell? Sing the beast a lullaby?”

If she had not still been so upset about Edan, Ebrisa might have laughed at how serious the templar seemed to be. As it was, she looked up at him with her plastered smile facade before returning her attention to the mouth of the cave up the path. “That's not necessary. I simply ask Leopold to open his mouth and pet his neck while he fills the jar.”

“Doesn't mean she won't sing to the thing, though,” Cade called out from the back, Samson looking over his shoulder to regard the archer.

“No kidding,” Samson mumbled before turning back to the mage. “So, magic then? Where'd you find a charm that works on wyverns?”

“Nope, no magic,” another of the escorts answered for her. “Strangest thing you'll ever see is this little whelp ordering the wyvern around with sweet words and smiles.”

“Leopold is very well behaved,” Ebrisa stated, rather matter-of-factly.

“He tried to bite my hand off when I went to get a better look at his wings,” Cade argued.

“You had your bow out and notched,” she argued back, turning to frown just a little at the templar. “You can't very well expect him to be gentle when you approach him so threateningly.”

“I've heard stories like this before,” Samson said while nodding slowly. “You wouldn't happen to be a fairy, would you?”

Again, at another time, she might have laughed. “I think I'm a little big to be a fairy.”

Samson pulled a sudden grin that was far too wide. “Oh, I don't know. You seem perfectly proportioned to me.”

A loud, pained roar cut through the air and Ebrisa instantly forgot the uncomfortable feeling creeping up her skin and ran towards the cave, abandoning her escorts and their shouts. She navigated the entrance quickly, racing to the sound until she arrived in the main cavern and even then barely slowed down.

“This would be so much easier if Anders had stuck around,” Hawke grumbled. She looked up from the cart she was trying to shove the injured wyvern off of at the sound of crunching rocks and locked eyes with the fast approaching mage. “H-hey, Trevelyan,” she started nervously. “You will not believe the week I've had. The king of Fereldan came to see me. Weird, right? I mean, one – a king. Two – Fereldan! _I'm_ from Fereldan!”

“Champion, what's going on here?” Ebrisa gently placed her hands on Leopold, the creature pulling away from the contact and revealing large patches of singed scales and blistered flesh. “What happened...?”

Hawke cleared her throat, slowly climbing higher on the cart where she would be out of immediate reach. “Well, we sort of borrowed Leopold for a little bit of assistance in the Bone Pit.” She glanced over to Sebastian and Fenris, hoping for some measure of support. “See... there was this really pesky dragon, and-”

“Dragon?” Ebrisa dropped her concern in favor of outrage, glaring up at the other woman. “You dragged Leopold to your stupid mine to fight a dragon!?”

“To be fair, the beast was nesting too close to Kirkwall to leave alone,” Sebastian calmly explained, hands spread in front of him. “It had to be dealt with.”

“So you request a contingent of troops from the guard or the templars,” Ebrisa fumed, already working her magic to soothe the wounds and hoping they weren't as bad as they looked.

“We did.” Hawke sat down on the corner of the cart that only supported half the wyvern's bulk. “Meredith wouldn't give us men, but she said we could take Leopold. Had to leave a trail of dragonling blood for him to follow, but Leopold did come on his own. Dragons are their natural enemy. He _wanted_ to fight it.”

The mage shook her head, fighting back her worried tears. “Then Meredith won't be getting any venom this week.”

“It is only a beast,” Fenris deadpanned. “I fail to see the problem.”

“The problem is he could have died!” Ebrisa shouted at the elf, twisting away from Leopold to glare at the fighter and try to make him understand. “He could have died, and I wouldn't have been able to do a single thing to help. I wouldn't have known until after. I wouldn't know what he'd been involved in until it was too late to stop him. I wouldn't know if it was my fault or not, if I had pushed him to it. I wouldn't know... if I could have... if maybe....” Her hot, angry tears dissolved into sorrow and she clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her strangled, pathetic sobs.

Fenris shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable. “I get the distinct feeling you are no longer talking about the wyvern.”

The templars arrived then, walking in on the strange scene. “Um,” Cade whispered to Samson, “this isn't how it normally goes.”

Sebastian gently guided Ebrisa's head to his unarmored shoulder, allowing her to cry a bit more. He'd not seen her upset since she told him about her father, and by then the pain had lessened to the point she only grew misty-eyed. He asked if she'd like to become a Vael, since she was no longer a Trevelyan and he'd always wanted a sister. He said it mostly to make her laugh, which she did, but he was only partially joking. They had both lost their family, one way or another, and the idea of adopting a new sibling seemed too nice to abandon. Whether she knew it or not, Ebrisa was his sister now, and it was a big brother's job to make things better.

“This loss you are feeling doesn't seem hypothetical,” he softly prodded, asking in such a way that she wasn't required to explain further.

Ebrisa sniffled, pulling away from the archer and wiping at the dark spots her tears had formed on his leather coat. “Edan... he was working with Ser Thrask. He was there when...”

“Shit...” Hawke mumbled, looking away and wondering if she had been the one to kill him. “I didn't know your friend was...”

“I didn't know either...”

“Edan Rayes?” Samson called out as the templars moved closer. He looked to another escort with a small twinge of recognition. “That's the one the knight-captain killed, right?”

Ebrisa felt a sudden pull on her body, like she'd been hit with a force mage spell, and looked at the sunken-eyed man with disbelief.

“He is, right?” Samson continued, now asking Hawke, who was giving him her best _shut the fuck up_ look. “You remember. Dwerp with dark brown hair that charged past us?”

“Yeah,” Hawke relented, voice quiet, “I remember.”

The world around Ebrisa darkened just a bit, the air thick and hard to take in, and she stood still for what felt like hours just staring at nothing. Eventually, Leopold made another pained sound and the mage kicked into action, whispering nonsensical words to soothe the wyvern as she resumed healing his burns and other injuries. When she was satisfied he could mend the rest on his own, she picked up the brush and bucket and gently washed away the ash and dead skin. She worked as she always did, but would speak to none save Leopold for the remainder of the visit, and then only in soft tones.

Had Edan specifically gone after Cullen? Was it because of what she told him? If she'd never admitted her feelings to Edan, would he have still joined Grace? Would he have been there that day?

Then her thoughts drifted to the other side. Drifted to things she hated even thinking.

Had Cullen specifically gone after Edan? Was it because Edan was her friend? Was it to serve as a warning to her, a reminder that he would always uphold the laws of the Chantry, no matter what? Did he even give a second thought to killing Edan? Would he give a second thought to killing her?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric's sneakiness is revealed, Samson is sleazy without tact, and things are getting real! Dun dun dun~!
> 
> But hey, that comic relief at the beginning of the chapter, right? I've toyed with writing "Silk and Steel" as its own terrible, terrible story. Me? Write pseudo-smut? Maybe.
> 
> The cast of Varric's books names explained:  
> Guard-Captain Arline Hendallen (“Pledge/oath” - Gaelic, “Hendyr+Vallen”) [Aveline]  
> Guard Donnen Brennokovic (Donnic Hendyr+Brennan Evighan) [a bunch of the guard]  
> Enchantress Risa (“laughter” - Spanish) [Ebrisa]  
> Ser Collin Hafterford (“virile” - Irish, “Hafter” is a river in Fereldan) [Cullen]  
> Knight-Commander Merewin (“renowned” - Anglo-Saxon? Its Gaelic too, but the meaning is unclear) [Meredith]  
> First Enchanter Uberto (“bright mind” - Italian) [Orsino]  
> (Did you know 'Orsino' is Italian for "Little Bear"? That's pretty adorable, tbh.)


	40. The Last Straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes down to this...

It was late in the day, sky gray and bleak with the promise of rain, when Orsino and Meredith broke into an argument so loud and terrible that the first enchanter finally had enough. He gathered a mass of mages to his side and crossed the harbor in a flurry, intending to storm all the way to the Chantry and force Elthina to finally make a decision. Meredith followed soon after, bringing a squad of her own, determined to stop the elf from dragging the grand cleric into Circle affairs.

Those who remained behind tried to continue on with their routines, but the tension and the rumors and the fact that both the first enchanter and knight-commander where angry and absent made everyone nervous. A calm had just barely begun to settle back over the Gallows when a strange, rumbling hum drifted in from over the water. Before anyone had time to ponder what it could possibly be, the dark clouds lit up an ominous red and the hum increased pitch to something akin to nails on a chalkboard. A deafening boom broke through the whine, the ground trembling beneath their feet, and still those within the Gallows had no idea what was going on.

It was an earthquake, or maybe one of the Vimmark mountains was truly a volcano, or perhaps it was an invading army trying to lay siege to the already suffering city-state. Whatever the cause of the explosion, it was obviously very large and very devastating, and there would be too many people hurt in the chaos for the healers at the Chantry to handle on their own.

Ebrisa acted as quickly as she could, gathering up healing tonics and supplies and encouraging Bernice to do the same. Other mages soon followed their lead and the group of healers hurried out into the entry yard where templars stared up at the lights flashing in the dark sky. “People are surely hurt in the city,” Ebrisa called out as she slowed to address a templar. “We need to get over there and help.”

The man blinked at her, surprised, then looked to the others trailing in behind her. He took only a moment before nodding in understanding and turned to lead the mages to the docks. There weren't many ferries left, but the templars began to ready the vessels all the same.

“Wait, some are coming back,” Bernice called out, spotting several of the small boats drifting towards them. “Perhaps they had the same idea we did.”

It was mages, strangely _only_ mages, and before they even came in to dock Orsino launched a fireball at the closest templar. Most of the healers scattered with the burst of fire, gasping and shrieking in surprise at the sudden attack, but Ebrisa rushed to the injured man and set to work healing him.

“Leave him!” Orsino shouted as he stepped off the boat and attacked another templar, the closer range dealing too much damage for anyone to assist. His mages rushed off behind him, pushing past the confused people on the docks and scrambling to get inside the tower. “Meredith has gone completely mad! She means to kill us all!”

The assembled healers looked to Bernice, the only senior enchanter among them, and waited for her direction. The old woman was still reeling, but knew that if Meredith was truly on a rampage, then it would be considerably safer inside. “Listen to the first enchanter,” she called out, and the group ran back through the entry yard.

Ebrisa stayed where she was, confused and frightened, and only moved once the templar she was healing patted her arm. She looked down at him, seeing the same alarm on his face before he climbed to his feet and rushed to try and get everyone to calm down. Ebrisa stood up, intending to join his efforts, but squinted curiously at the hazy skyline of the city. Even through the ash, smoke, and flames, she could tell something was missing.

Further noise of battle and screams of pain drew her attention back to the matter at hand and she dashed up the stairs to find dead templars laying in the yard, likely taken by the same surprise as those on the docks, and several of the banners and shades burning away. Orsino was shouting instructions to the mages, urging them to get back and retreat inside as he held his staff out defensively towards the last of the templars. They climbed the steps cautiously, swords at the ready, and just as Orsino collected the last of the needed mana for his spell, Ebrisa tossed a barrier around the soldiers.

Orsino's spell was weakened, but still managed a good amount of damage, and he stared at her from the top of the steps as though betrayed. “Child, what are you _doing?_ The templars will slay all of us!”

She shook her head, unable to accept that Meredith had just snapped, that there wasn't more to the situation.

“First Enchanter!” Hawke bellowed, running into the center of the yard and glaring up at the man.

“Stay back!” Orsino darted his eyes between the still protected templars and the champion. “I don't want to fight you!”

Meredith appeared on the heels of Hawke's arrival, the men she had taken into the city and others she had gathered up from patrols standing behind her. “And here you are,” she sneered, stalking across the flagstones. A tense sort of calm settled over the yard as Orsino and Meredith walked towards each other, the lingering mages slowly backing into the fortified building while templar forces trickled in from the docks. They stood face to face with Hawke in the middle, acting as a sort of mediator.

As they began their talk, Ebrisa rushed up the steps to heal the templars Orsino struck, apologizing for not acting sooner or getting sturdier shielding in place.

“The grand cleric is dead, killed by a mage.” Meredith hissed, her words breaking through the fog in Ebrisa's mind.

Elthina was dead? Did that have anything to do with the explosion? Then it dawned on her, the missing silhouette in the darkened skyline was the Chantry. A mage had blown up the Chantry...

She was shaken from her thoughts once again by someone touching her arm, this time it was Orsino pulling her to her feet.

“Come along, child,” he urged softly, leading her towards the building. “We must prepare for the battle.”

Ebrisa tugged her arm free and took a step back. “No.”

He quickly glanced at the others around him, at the increasing number of templars coming in from the harbor. “There is no time to be frightened, now come.” He reached for her again, but she took another step back.

“I won't.”

Orsino was quickly loosing patience, knowing they had little time as it was to fortify their positions inside. “She has invoked the Right of Annulment! Meredith means to kill every last one of us!”

Another shift and Ebrisa was on the top step. “Grand Cleric Elthina and most of the clergy is dead, making Knight-Commander Meredith the highest ranking Chantry authority in Kirkwall.” She took a deep breath, then met Orsino's eyes. “If she wishes to call for annulment, then that is her right.”

Ebrisa turned and walked down the rest of the steps, hearing the iron gate slam down behind her. She walked silently through the growing crowd of templars and up to Meredith, quietly taking off her satchel of healing supplies as she waited for the older woman to acknowledge her and setting it on the ground. It wasn't Meredith that noticed, but Hawke, and the Champion was so confused by her appearance that she pushed the knight-commander a little out of the way to get a better look.

“Trevelyan? What are you doing?” Hawke ruffled her short hair, wondering if she'd missed something.

Ebrisa kept her gaze low, fearful that if she looked anyone in the eye, she would lose her nerve. “I... I am a mage of this Circle and this Circle is to be annulled, a sacred right first given by Divine Galatea in the Glory Age.” There was a small twitch in her lips as she thought of the irony of how her mother shared that name and how the woman would likely approve of this as well.

“Okay...” Hawke mumbled, still not understanding.

Another deep breath, then Ebrisa knelt down before the knight-commander.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Cullen stared in silence, not even his heart making a sound as he watched Ebrisa pull her braid to the side, exposing the back of her neck and leaning a little forward to make it _easier_ for Meredith to execute her. Would the knight-commander do it, or would she order someone else to? If she ordered him, would he even be able to lift his sword against Ebrisa?

Ebrisa, who is always the first to help.

Ebrisa, who so often puts her own needs below others.

Ebrisa, who abides by the Chantry's laws...

He felt it then, a terrible gnawing in the pit of his stomach and every muscle in his body tense in an attempt to keep him still. Everything was so hectic after the Chantry exploded that he hadn't had time to process what an annulment really meant and he had stopped seeing Ebrisa as a mage so long ago, that this possibility never even crossed his mind. Fereldan's Circle was worse than this – _so_ much worse than this – and still a few mages managed to survive, but Meredith was not Greagoir and her mercy had been all but absent for a very long time. If she lifted her blade against Ebrisa, would he stop her or let her deal the blow?

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Hawke groaned, yanking Ebrisa back to her feet. “Meredith isn't going to kill you, you're certifiably the purest mage in Kirkwall.” She cocked her head and looked to the knight-commander. “I mean, how corrupted can she be if she turns herself in?”

“It could be a trick,” Mettin grumbled, though even he didn't sound convinced of it.

“Right, because one mage in a sea of templars really stands a chance of catching you off guard.” Hawke rolled her eyes. “Trevelyan, why don't you tell us what you were doing out here in the first place?”

Ebrisa brought her eyes up briefly to meet Hawke's, then dropped them back down. “We were going to help the healers in the city. We didn't know what happened yet...”

“And what did you do when Orsino came storming through here?”

“Well...”

“She helped us,” the still singed but okay templar from the dock answered for her. “Not them, _us_.”

Hawke hummed and threw an arm around the mage. “Came ready to heal, helped the templars, refused Orsino.” She brought a hand to the side of her mouth, aiming her words at Meredith. “Sounds pretty loyal to me.”

“That is true enough,” Meredith slowly relented. “Trevelyan has never given us reason to doubt her before. Very well, she may stay and assist our wounded here.” Meredith turned back to her officers to resume their discussion and Cullen finally felt like he could breathe again.

 

Hawke removed her arm and shoved the enchanter enough to make her stumble a little, scowl in place. “ _That_ was the stupidest thing I've ever seen you do, and I've watched you stuck your entire head in a wyvern's mouth.” Ebrisa inhaled, as though preparing to explain, but Hawke cut her off. “I don't want to hear it. I've already seen one mage I called friend die today, don't make me watch another one go.” She paused, suddenly solemn, then turned and flicked the end of Ebrisa's nose. “Dumbass.”

Ebrisa shifted on her feet, unsure how to feel about the entire situation. “Sorry...”

The Champion sighed heavily, exaggerating the action and scooping up the satchel. “Yes, yes, fine, fine.” She handed it over and motioned to a corner. “Now go get centered or whatever it is you do to get all glowy.”

The mage offered a weak smile, then walked over to the bare formari shops and began arranging the supplies she'd stuffed in her bag. It wouldn't be nearly enough for everyone and her mana would not last forever, but she hoped she'd end up being at least a little useful.

It was a bad situation to be in, whichever side she was on. If she sided with her fellow mages, she was likely to be doing the same thing she was now, so what was the real difference? Not resisting? She glanced over her shoulder as Meredith addressed the troops, eyes roaming the crowd until they settled on a very familiar curly head of hair and a sad, soft smile spread across her face before she turned away.

If there was even the tiniest sliver of a chance that she would face off against Cullen, she would drop her defenses and let him swing. Even after everything, after the pain and the doubts, she still loved him, and she couldn't hurt Cullen. Never Cullen.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Meredith's speech was over and a few people were going around making final preparations and giving words of encouragement to one another. Hawke was among them, laughing and punching arms and overall trying to get everyone pumped in a very different way than the knight-commander had. Cullen glanced around the dark yard, night having fallen sometime since they arrived, and zeroed in on the sparks of someone trying to start a fire in one of the braziers. It was Ebrisa, flint and steel in hand, trying to create some much needed light for her small medical station.

Cullen couldn't help but smile at that, how she was trying to reserve as much mana as possible for healing that even a wisp of flame to light some kindling seemed like a waste. She was clearly struggling with the task and he could practically see the frustration seeping from her shoulders. Cullen made a step towards her to help, but Aveline was there first and got the fire going as if it was nothing. He watched Ebrisa dip her head in thanks, no doubt apologizing for being unskilled with the simple task. Aveline patted her arm, waved the issue away and walked off.

Merrill slipped in beside the other mage, leaning on her staff and looking at the supplies. She slumped her shoulders and Ebrisa turned to her quickly, bringing a hand to her mouth, then gently placing it on the elf's arm. Comforting her about Anders, most likely. Merrill nodded, then wrapped her thin arms around the blonde woman in a quick, but crushing hug. Ebrisa smiled, and Merrill walked away.

“You should go talk to her,” Isabela whispered beside him, causing Cullen to jump slightly.

“I – there's nothing to say,” he assured her.

“Oh?” She leaned forward, trying to get a look at his face. “Well, if _you_ don't, I will.” She slipped away before he could stop her and threw an arm around the mage. Isabela pulled back and began making suggestive and lewd gestures with her hands as she spoke animatedly, but Ebrisa only tilted her head to the side in confusion. Praise the Maker for small miracles. Seemingly content to not explain a single bit of it, Isabela swept a finger under the mage's chin and sauntered off.

“You should go talk to her,” Varric sighed tiredly, adjusting the lapels on his coat.

“So I've been told,” Cullen muttered.

At that moment Sebastian approached the medical station, offering a few more supplies he managed to find and Ebrisa gave him a grateful smile before turning back to the table. Her hand stilled and Cullen watched her body sag just a bit in worry or sadness. Sebastian turned her to face him, grasping both her shoulders as he spoke, then ducking his head a little to try and catch her eyes. She nodded, then he pulled her into a hug, which she returned.

Cullen tensed, but couldn't tear his eyes away. He wasn't sure which made him more jealous, another man embracing Ebrisa or the fact that they had the freedom to do so.

Varric clicked his tongue and shook his head. “See now, that could have been you.”

No, it couldn't.

The dwarf strode up to the mage as Sebastian left, glancing over his shoulder and smirking at the fact that Cullen was still watching. Varric slapped her on the back, the action making Ebrisa straighten instantly, and his laughter could be heard over the din of the organizing troops. Varric poked her in the side repeatedly until she brushed his hands away, blushing and shaking her head. He shot one more look at Cullen, a smirk firmly in place, then left to join Hawke on the other side of the yard.

Carver stepped up beside the knight-captain, feeling a little emotionally drained from speaking with his sister. He followed the other man's eyes to Ebrisa and hummed. “You know, you should probably-”

“I'm _going_ ,” Cullen snapped, finally moving from the place he'd been rooted to and leaving a very confused Carver behind.

Ebrisa turned at his approach, then instantly faced the table again. “Knight-Captain.”

Maker, he had almost forgotten how sweet she made his title sound.

“How is it coming? Are you prepared?” It had been so long since he'd actually spoken to her that he was having trouble not sounding stiff.

“Unfortunately, we don't have access to a store room, so this is all I have to work with,” Ebrisa mumbled, disappointment and concern lacing her words. “I will do my best to not let you down.”

“Impossible,” Cullen replied, trying to be encouraging but realizing too late it had come off as anything but.

“Right...” she said quietly, gripping the edge of the table.

“What I meant was... you don't have to worry about letting me down.” Cullen hoped his clarification had corrected his intent. “Just do what you can. Anything you offer is more than we would have had without you.”

She looked up at him with that, meeting his eyes for the first time in months, and he was glad to see that hidden light was still there. “There's no way I would have stood against you.” She paused, and dropped her eyes once again, suddenly looking very sad and very tired. “...against the templars.”

“Right,” Cullen mimicked her earlier response. “Because Chantry law gives us the authority to do this.”

She deflated before his eyes and turned back to the table. “Yes. Chantry law.”

Cullen wanted to say more, to wish her luck, wanted to touch her as he had watched all the others do so easily, but then Meredith's speech came back to him.

_You must harden your hearts._

“I...” Cullen swallowed the things he wished he could say. “I should report back to the knight-commander.”

_We will do what we must._

“Take care of yourself, Knight-Captain,” Ebrisa whispered, the quiet tone partially masking the shakiness of her voice. He didn't reply beyond a nod and walked away feeling no better than he did before speaking with her.

_Maker have mercy on their souls._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	41. Blessed Are the Righteous, the Lights in the Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, real quick, don't freak out, but I'm going to divide my story at the "post-game" point. I easily have 20 chapters of stuff after the annulment and didn't want my fic to look too daunting with a massive amount of chapters. Fear not! There won't be a break in the upload schedule and I'm likely to upload the final chapter here the same day as the first chapter for the next part to make easy navigation.  
> Just wanted to give everyone a heads up on that, since a chapter count will now be saying 42.

After the templars broke down the gate and engaged the mages further within, Ebrisa was left alone in the yard. She busied herself with tearing the singed remains of banners and shade coverings into strips for binding wounds. They were far from ideal, but there weren't exactly any better options laying around. If there had been time, she would have liked to boil the fabric to reduce the chance of infection – a crucial step she had read about in a Chantry sister's journal the library kept – and if there had been _more_ time, she would have liked to try and stop this entire thing from happening.

Maybe if she had spoken to Anders more, she might have been able to dissuade him from acting so drastically. Maybe if she could get him to see all the good the Circle did from her perspective – how it sheltered mages from abusive families, how it taught them to nurture their power instead of fear it, how it gave them a place to form bonds with people who understood their struggles – maybe he wouldn't have had tunnel vision for the bad. Maybe, maybe, maybe. There was no more time for _maybes_.

Ebrisa watched the stairs for signs of returning wounded and called out to her spirit companions. Mother was angry she had surrendered. Sympathy was appalled she was allowing the annulment. Belief was proud she was aiding those blessed by the Maker, and strengthened the thread that connected them until a green healing aura encircled the mage. Ebrisa focused on that feeling, letting out a shaking breath as it drained half of her mana stores and knowing it was far more useful than allocating her magic to individual healing spells.

The clamor of battle echoed in the empty yard, sounding both thankfully distant and nauseously near. Defending the Gallows years ago had not filled Ebrisa with this much dread, but she had been part of a team then. She had others she could look to for guidance when she felt unsure as they fought against warriors so foreign in appearance and belief that she could lie to herself that they were monsters. Now? Now she was by herself and those she had turned to in need were the seeing their former protectors as monsters.

Templars began to stumble in, supporting or carrying those that were worse off and Ebrisa sprang into action. She examined each soldier quickly, sowing a tiny piece of her aura into them and adding a trickle of healing while she moved on to inspect the others. Most of the wounds were external – burns, frost bite, elemental damage – but some showed Ebrisa the full extent of what Force Mages could do. Entire limbs crushed, skulls cracked, organs ruptured... the gruesome sight made her glad once again that she had not chosen that specialization.

She did what she could to extend her care, tried to save as many templars as possible while her supplies and energy dwindled to near nothing, but there were those too badly hurt and they died in her hands. A portion of the soldiers that came to her in pain and left the world the same way had been hit with wyvern venom, the mages having access to the store rooms Solivitus used and chucking the flasks meant for coating swords into groups of templars instead, splashing its contents everywhere. She had no access to the antidote or any way of making more from outside the labs, and was unable to keep them from suffering. Ebrisa chided herself, thinking if only she had saved that last potion or held off on that particularly taxing spell, then maybe...

But there was no more time for maybes.

 

A quiet chorus of _Knight-Captain_ sounded off around her and Ebrisa's throat seized in panic. She had no more supplies and even less mana, leaving her with no possible way to heal Cullen if he was injured and her body ran cold at the realization. She turned sharply to the stairs and let out a deep, sigh of relief that betrayed her guarded posture.

Cullen's armor was splattered in blood, but from the easy way he descended the steps it was clear it was not his own. His shield had rings of black soot and the enamel of the sigil of the Order had begun to break away from the multiple dents in the surface, but he removed it from his arm and secured it away without issue. He was tired, the siege on his own home draining him both physically and emotionally, but he was only slightly injured. Nothing life threatening, nothing that couldn't wait to be cleaned and bandaged, and nothing that Ebrisa had to worry about.

She was so glad to see him more or less unscathed that when he found her eyes through the crowd, she couldn't restrain her smile. Her vision became blurry the longer she looked at him, so Ebrisa tore her eyes away, the quick action setting loose her built up tears. Maker, he was alright – of course he was! Cullen was a very clever and capable warrior and this had been a planned assault, not a sneaking knife in the dark from a traitorous hand. The memory of her horror as she stumbled upon him bleeding out in the lower levels gripped her heart all over again and she tried desperately to push it away.

Cullen approached the impromptu infirmary, asking one of the mended knight-lieutenants for an update instead of speaking directly to the mage. Perhaps he could see how weary she was, too. “The number of casualties is less than expected,” Cullen said, voice deepened with a quiet grief. It was less than expected, but still more than he would have liked. “Make the rounds and gather up whatever potions the men still have and bring them here, where they are most needed.” The other officer saluted, albeit somewhat gingerly, and moved off to perform the task.

Ebrisa had dried her eyes and looked around the wounded one more time. When she ran out of bandages, she'd hastily made more from her robes. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time and she certainly didn't regret stemming the blood that now soaked the fabric she was once wearing, but now in the relative calm after the battle she felt extremely exposed. Or maybe that was just because she could feel Cullen coming up behind her.

“You seem as though you could use this,” Cullen spoke gently, holding out a half-empty lyrium potion. “I instructed everyone to use these sparingly, but I saw a good portion drained during the first push. Barclay is unlikely to find any more in his search.”

She took the flask cautiously, feeling both glad that Cullen hadn't commented on her state of undress and disappointed he didn't so much as glance at her bare arms or legs. Her sleeves had been the first to go, as they were right there when she needed just a little more cloth, and the over skirt that hung around her waist was essentially a big rectangle, so it made easy shredding after that. Both her robe and the linen shift were cut as well, the fabric layers now dancing somewhere above her knees. It was a startling amount of skin to be showing, but Cullen ignored it and focused instead on the signs of mana depletion the mage was so admirably trying to hide.

“Don't you need it?” Ebrisa mumbled, rubbing her fingers along the smooth surface of the glass.

“You need it more,” he said with a hint of concern in his voice. Or maybe he was just more tired than he appeared.

The mage hummed her agreement and drank the blue draft, feeling her body begin to balance itself once again. She stopped before draining it entirely and pulled the flask from her lips, leaving some of the liquid inside. “That doesn't mean you shouldn't have any.”

Cullen frowned, preparing to argue and insist she finish the rest, but begrudgingly relented under her firm gaze, like a child being told to eat everything on his plate before being allowed to go play. He brought the bottle to his mouth and tipped it back, his own lips pressed where Ebrisa's were just a moment before. The woman couldn't help but blush just a little at that and found herself swallowing when Cullen did. There was no lyrium slipping down her throat, but she certainly felt warmer all the same.

The hard, heavy steps of Meredith sounded down the stairs and the entire yard turned to watch the knight-commander make her entrance. They slowly gathered around her, awaiting further instruction.

“Orsino has been slain, despite his wicked blood magic ritual and horrific transformation. He lied to us at every turn, claiming I was paranoid when he was doing the very thing I accused his people of under our very nose.” Meredith frowned heavily, shaking her head. “All of those years playing the victim. I was a fool to ever believe him.”

The Champion and her people were the last to arrive, surveying the yard and seemingly trying to gauge how many templars were lost. She had barely gotten off the last step when Meredith addressed her.

“Look at all this,” the older woman bemoaned. “Magic is a cancer in the heart of our land, just as it was in the time of Andraste. And like her, we are left with no choice but to purify by fire and blood.”

Hawke snorted and rested a hand on her hip. “That's certainly a strange way to treat a patient.”

“Sometimes a limb must be amputated to save a life. Unpleasant, but necessary.” Meredith turned away from Hawke, casting her steely gaze towards the infirmary. “And my surgery here is not yet done.”

Meredith's hardened eyes fell on Ebrisa and stole the air from her lungs as the full meaning of the words rattled her. The yard was quiet, many seemingly sharing in the mage's surprise as more turned to look in her direction. She had been prepared to submit before when there seemed to be be no other options, but now that Ebrisa had been shown leniency and given another chance, the idea of dying terrified her. As quickly as the fear had come, Ebrisa tried to push it away. This was the knight-commander's right.

“Of course.” She lowered her eyes and began to move forward to once again surrender herself to Meredith, but Cullen shot out a hand and blocked her path.

“Knight-Commander,” Cullen began in a firm and steady voice. “I thought you had already deemed Trevelyan loyal. What purpose does it serve to kill her now?”

Whatever shock she'd felt a moment ago, this was a thousand times more potent. Cullen was defending her, going against his superior officer to keep her safe. That he would put his station in potential jeopardy for her sake made Ebrisa's heart beat so hard her chest ached and she let herself hope for a chance at something more once again.

“I said that she may aid us during the battle, and that time has passed.” Meredith turned fully towards her captain, scowling just under the surface of her calm expression. “Any tool that is no longer useful must be discarded, no matter how well it may have served.”

Ebrisa could see the simmering rage building inside the older woman and how it was now focusing on the man that stood between them. Meredith seemed too unstable, adrenaline likely still coursing through her veins from the grueling fight against Orsino, and looked as if she might snap at any moment. Cullen was defying his commander simply by questioning her motives for the complete reversal on a decision she'd made that same night and if he continued to do so, it could mean something far more deadly than a disapproving mark in his service record. Ebrisa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pushing down her fears and pulling up her smiling facade. She could do this.

“Knight-Captain, this is fine.” Ebrisa placed her hand on his arm, gently pushing it away. “Once the Right is complete, things will get better.” She looked up at him, seeing the disbelief and trying to not read too much into it as her forced smile wavered. “It's fine. I'm fine...”

Cullen pivoted and seized her wrist, gripping it almost painfully as his disbelief morphed to anger. “You haven't done anything deserving of execution! You can't just smile and act like you don't mind or pretend this is how its supposed to be. This isn't _fine_ , Ebrisa!”

“But-” A protest sprung to her lips before she could even think of one, too taken back by Cullen's violent reaction to form any semblance of cohesive thought.

“You might be fine with it, but _we_ aren't!” Hawke called out before storming up to the knight-commander. “Back off, Meredith. You got every other mage in the Gallows already, so leave Trevelyan alone. You said you would start again, so start with her!”

Meredith redirected her focus to the Champion, slowly questioning Hawke's motives and overall loyalty. “Your timely appearance in Kirkwall was surely no coincidence. You gathered wealth and influence to better shield apostates and when that wasn't enough, you became the people's hero. Just how much of this did you plan? Had you a hand in the Chantry's destruction?”

“That's ridiculous,” Hawke snapped. “You're giving me far too much credit if you think I'm capable of that much foresight. I don't even plan what I'm going to have for lunch.”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Everything just made too much sense to Meredith now. “The people of Kirkwall will mourn your loss, but I will tell them you died battling the mages. A righteous cause.”

Cullen broke away from the enchanter to move closer to the argument, now defending Hawke as he had Ebrisa and the small bit of hope and elation that had risen inside the mage died away. He had not stepped in front of her to protect her, but to draw attention to the knight-commander's behavior. Meredith was being erratic and paranoid and Cullen was doing his best to calm the situation before another battle broke out. He was not acting out of concern for the mage. This was just Cullen being Cullen.

Suddenly, Meredith pulled the massive sword from her back and leveled it at the knight-captain, loudly threatening all of her men to obey her orders even as Varric swore under his breath in recognition of the weapon's ore. Meredith smirked at his reaction and took the time to lovingly caress her blade as it sparked under her touch, red streaks dancing in the air while she spoke fondly of how she acquired it years ago.

Hawke was clearly stunned, but still managed a quip. “Well, that idol sure seems a lot more sword-like than I remember.”

Meredith stepped forward menacingly, pointing the glowing blade at the Champion. “All of you, I want her dead!”

“No!” Carver shouted over the murmuring of the templars, turning around to address them. “My sister defended us, defended Kirkwall, more times than she'll ever admit! She's no saint, but she's not a schemer either. Every time she's put her life on the line to help, it was because it was the right thing to do, and ending her life is anything but!”

“You dare!” Meredith hissed, shooting a withering glare over her shoulder at the younger Hawke.

“Enough!” Cullen bellowed, his initial shock over the glowing blade at this throat forgotten and his sensibility restored. He strode forward, putting himself back in the sword's reach and radiating so much authority in his voice that those standing closest straightened instantly. “This is _not_ what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander, step down. I relieve you of your command!”

The yard fell silent, every templar stunned by the declaration but none as much as Meredith. “My own knight-captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic,” the older woman said in a slow awe. She jumped surprisingly quickly to outrage, swinging her sword around as she took erratic steps in every direction, the templars leaning away from the wildly moving point. “You all have! You're all weak, allowing the mages to control your minds, to turn you against me!”

Meredith stopped her erratic pacing and returned focus to Hawke, leveling her sword with the Champion once again. “But I don't need any of you! I will protect this city myself!”

Not wasting a moment on hesitation, Carver stepped between the women. “You'll have to go through me,” he growled.

“And me,” Cullen added as he stood beside him, hand grasping the hilt of his sword.

“Traitors,” the knight-commander sneered. “I'll have both your heads!” The remaining templars, still tired from fighting the mages, backed away further, retreating almost all the way to the walls as the leader they once respected so much swung her glowing sword around herself. Meredith stabbed the blade into the flagstones, leaning on it slightly and began to pray. “ _Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter_!” Her voice rang out through the yard with its own eerie echo, sword shining painfully bright as she retrieved it with one hand and took up a battle stance.

Ebrisa and most of the templars hung back as Hawke, her companions, Carver, and Cullen engaged with the impossibly fast and terrifyingly powerful knight-commander. Meredith swung the massive blade one-handed as though it were nothing, knocking foes several feet back and cracking tiles with nearly every hit. The sparks from her sword began running up her arm, seeping her entire body with energy until Meredith's eyes glowed with the same eerie red light as her weapon. It was a horror to witness, but she was outnumbered and eventually worn down.

Meredith rested on a knee, panting angrily as her flaring orbs narrowed on the party against her. “Maker,” she screeched to the sky, “Your servant begs You for the strength to defeat this evil!” She lowered her head, coiling her body, then leapt away to the top of the stairs. From there, she flipped her blade and pierced the stonework with a feral battle cry. Red energy jumped across the ledge, popping every few feet until it connected with the two-faced Tevinter statue. Sparks danced over the bronze form as any electricity might do to any metal, but then the statue turned its head and flexed all four of its arms.

Reanimating corpses was one thing, but to bring an object to life that never once had it was a baffling accomplishment, especially for a non-mage. Meredith's weapon was pure lyrium and merely wielding it had granted her the ability to do it, but holding lyrium did not usually do such a thing. Ebrisa knew then that this red variety had to be much more powerful. Much _too_ powerful.

The statue dropped down from the ledge and descended on the party, its many arms and weapons giving it no flank for the rouges to strike, no blind spot for Merrill to hide in, and no chance for the warriors to catch their breath. As they encircled and fought with the bronze beast, Ebrisa did her best to support them with what little mana Cullen's potion had restored. She was too weak to call upon a spirit companion, but barriers and enhancements were still available to her. Just as she dropped some more shielding over Carver before he got kicked away, there was a sudden crash behind her.

She twisted her head to look, but even that action proved too slow. A weight slammed into her back, the pressure extending all the way through her middle and punching out again. It was such a strange sensation and tiny jolts of electricity fired from her nerve endings, as if trying to fight back against the unknown feeling. Slowly, curiously, Ebrisa looked down to where the pressure was lightest and furrowed her brow as she tried to make sense of the red object protruding from her abdomen.

“You're out of control, Amelia,” Meredith whispered in her ear, remorse in her demonic voice. “You've corrupted my men with blood magic. You did this. My own sister... Look at what you've made me do!”

Ebrisa's mind was still trying to figure out what was going on and where the warmth soaking into her corset had come from when fire built up around her. The flames grew quickly, angry and hot, and Meredith swung her sword in a wide, overhead arc to be rid of the inferno before it melted her armor to her skin. Ebrisa went flying through the air and slammed into a shop stand, knocking the table over and on top of herself as she landed. The flames lost their intensity as soon as the threat was gone, Meredith charging into the yard as her animated statue finally crumpled.

The sounds of fighting seemed so distant, but as the mage lay on the cold tile in a growing blaze of wood she could catch bits and pieces of shouts. Her eyes began to sting as she realized how pointless she had been. Fight beside the mages, be executed before the assault, be slain after, killed as a spectator. It would have made no difference, because Meredith would have snapped and turned on her people regardless and Cullen and Carver would still have stood against her with Hawke. What had been Ebrisa's purpose here, truly? What was the point in being here?

The Chantry, the Circle, her family, Vemara, Edan, Cullen...

Everything she'd lived for, everyone she'd loved, they had been destroyed, died, or rejected her. They were all gone, one way or another. She didn't make a difference, and there was nothing for her anymore. There was no one.

There was no point.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have asked before how much Ebrisa could handle before she broke, and it looks like she just did.
> 
> Also, the reason for Meredith's actions over the years are now brought to light. For any who didn't figure it out, Ebrisa reminded Meredith of her older sister, Amelia.  
> (The following is all canon.)  
> Amelia was kindhearted and gentle, she kept a small garden, and was terrified of her mage abilities. Her family tried to hide her, but one day word got out and a squad of templars came marching in to bring her to the Circle. Amelia was overcome with fear and became an abomination, killing her mother in front of Meredith and slaying practically the entire village before tempalrs took her down.  
> That's how Meredith became a templar, so no other family would suffer like hers. That's how she developed her strange sense of pity for mages, because she knew their power could be too much for them to handle. That's how she knew better than to "trust a sweet face", because her sister was the sweetest person she ever knew and that had not stopped Amelia from becoming a monster.


	42. In Their Blood, The Maker's Will Is Written

The fight against Meredith was somehow more taxing than annulling the Circle and in the end, she hadn't even perished by their hand. The crazed templar pulled power from her lyrium weapon more and more, crying out to the Maker and spouting frenzied bits of scripture as her mind was lost to everything beyond that fight. She brought statues to life and called upon abilities no templar had ever displayed, but it was her desperate need for _more_ that caused her precious sword to shatter and consume her, turning her to lyrium herself.

It was such an abrupt end to the battle that it took time to process, but eventually the tension in the air dissipated and everyone relaxed. Cullen took command of the templars and had those still physically capable begin the gruesome, but necessary, task of gathering up the dead. He divided them into teams and assigned each group locations within the Gallows, letting them know that after their task was complete they were to get any rest they could find. A row had already been started of those who hadn't made it in the infirmary, despite Ebrisa's aid, and the thought had Cullen wonder where the mage had gone.

He tried to not let his mind run away from him and pull up terrible scenarios to answer the query, but it was difficult to stay focused. Cullen took a deep breath and ran over the tasks that needed to be done in his head, knowing he was going to be very busy for a very long time. The Gallows, the Chantry, and much of Kirkwall had been devastated in a matter of hours, but it could take years for the scars to lift.

Despite his best efforts, despite the daunting list of duties and responsibilities that were now his, Cullen couldn't cease his worry and began searching the yard. He would have noticed if the mage had gone along with any of the other groups and knew she wouldn't have abandoned everyone to get rest on her own – despite no doubt needing it – so that meant she was still somewhere close by. It occurred to him that she may have been able to open a side gate in an attempt to find more supplies and he made a beeline for the shops.

The aftermath of Ebrisa's healing ward lay before him: empty bottles, broken glass, pools of blood, and splotches of spilled poultices covered the flagstones. One of the abandoned shops was smashed and scorched, only the faintest remnants of fire persisting on the very edge of the wood. Cullen drew closer to the oddity, stilling as a bare arm came into view beneath the blackened planks. There was only a moment of confusion, barely even a second, and Cullen rushed forward to make up for the time that moment had stolen.

He tore the rubble aside, tossing it away until he had cleared it from Ebrisa and even then the pulse thundering in his ears did not lessen. She lay unmoving the same way she had landed – head tilted to the side, one arm level with her shoulder and the other bent at her hip, knees raised and pressed inward, one just slightly more so than the other. Her skin was pale – unharmed by the blaze that had overtaken the shop stand – and the tie in her hair was gone, her braid untwisting and fanning unrestrained curls across the dirty tiles. Most of all, most important, was the devastatingly gruesome wound in her abdomen.

Cullen dropped down beside her, kneeling in the pool of blood that surrounded the woman, and shook her shoulders in an attempt to rose her. “Ebrisa?” She didn't respond, only shifting with the motion he was causing, and Cullen couldn't feel a single trace of warmth from her body. He leaned away a little and yanked off his gauntlets before returning his hands to her, this time cupping her face. “Ebrisa...”

She was cold, but her heart beat. She was still, but in the stillness Cullen could hear her ragged breathing. She was alive, but he didn't know how much longer she would stay that way without help. Cullen had some field medic experience, but knew that the long, deep gash was far beyond him, even _if_ he had anything useful at hand. The paths to the store rooms were clear now and he could run to the nearest location to fetch some potions or wrappings, but the very real fear that if he left Ebrisa's side for too long she would not be there when he got back kept him from doing so.

Maker, how long had she even been like this? If he had noticed her absence earlier, if he had kept an eye on her during the chaotic fight with Meredith, if he had stayed by her side instead of joining Hawke and-

He bolted upright and raced to the docks, hoping that he might catch the Champion's group before they departed. By the time Cullen got there, they were just about to cast off and he nearly fell down the steps in his hurry. Aveline had to reconnect with her guard and Hawke was going to fill in the officials at the Keep, but he didn't need them.

“Merrill!” He shouted as loudly as he could, pleading it would be enough to catch the elf's attention.

The mage perked up at her name and turned around on the boat. “Knight-Captain? Oh, I suppose it should be _Knight-Commander_ now, shouldn't it? You did relieve-” She stopped short as she took in his appearance. Whether it was the blood on the bottom of his uniform, the desperation on his face, or the fear in his eyes that turned the elf serious, Cullen didn't care. “What's happened?”

“Ebrisa needs you. _Now!”_ He barely waited for her reaction before racing back up the stairs and allowed himself a small bit of relief when he heard hurried footsteps behind him. It had only been a few minuets, but the worry that she had slipped away in that brief amount of time had him rushing to check her vitals all over again. Cullen could not bring himself to be pleased that they remained unchanged, because while they had not gotten worse, her vitals hadn't gotten better either.

A sharp, horrified gasp told him Merrill had arrived and a deep, accented mumble of prayer told him Sebastian was there are well. The archer had already lost so much that day – a mother figure, peers, friends, his home – that the prospect of losing one more person in his life had him questioning what he could have possibly done to offend the Maker so.

Cullen wasted no time on pondering the archer's appearance. “Vael, there's a store room not far from here. Go see what you can find and bring it back.”

Sebastian pulled his eyes from the bloody mage to the templar at her side. “I... I don't know my way around the Gallows. It would be quicker if you went. We'll stay with her and do what we can.”

Leave Ebrisa when she was like this? Panic and fear overtook Cullen's normally rational mind, ignoring that what the prince was saying made the most sense, and he took Ebrisa's right hand firmly in his own as though the archer might try to pull him away by force. “I- I can't... she could... what if while I'm... Maker, I can't leave her now.”

Sebastian's brow shot up in surprise at the templar, but a moment later he donned a determined expression and nodded in understanding. “I'll return as soon as I'm able.”

The elf staggered over to her friend and dropped heavily to the ground. “Oh, da'len...” Her voice was quiet and strained, the elf doing her best to hold back the tears that wanted to flow. She sniffled, the action adding to her resolve, and looked to the man across from her. “What do you need me to do?”

“Heal her, obviously!” Cullen snapped, having no patience left for manners.

Merrill's eyes widened and she looked between the blondes quickly. “Oh, no, but I can't. I- I don't know any spells like that!”

She couldn't heal Ebrisa?

That couldn't be right.

“Ebrisa said you were apprentice to the Dalish queen, and her skills were well known to us here. I saw you not an hour ago recover from a nasty blow without potion!”

She focused down on the woman before her, gently brushing the hair from her face. “I... I can heal myself, but not others. Its not a skill Keeper Marethari taught me, or one your kind is fond of.” Merrill scratched her head, ducking it in shame of her abilities for perhaps the first time. “All I can manage for certain is to control her blood, pull it back inside her if its not too coagulated already.”

“Control her blood,” Cullen mumbled back, slowly realizing why the elf had been exiled from her people in the first place. “You're a blood mage.”

Merrill nodded, withdrawing a small blade from her belt. “Da'len never knew. I was afraid what she would say at first, you know, considering Quentin and all the others, but I know I needn't have been concerned. She wouldn't have liked me any less, I don't think. Scold me a good measure, but never from anywhere but a place of love.”

Yes, Cullen knew Ebrisa's chiding tone well. He'd been on the receiving end of it on more than a few occasions. He hoped to hear it for many, many more, even if it required a little unexpected blood magic from an ally.“You are certain you can do that? Stop the bleeding?”

She made an uneasy sound that did nothing to boost Cullen's confidence in her. “In theory? Its usually used to pull blood out, but if it can go one way, I should be able to make it go the other.” Merrill took a deep breath, readying the spell in her mind, then slid the blade across her palm and got to work. It took a lot of concentration at first, but once she had it going the trick worked remarkably well. Much of the blood was lost, but at the very least Merrill could keep more from spilling out until Sebastian returned.

Cullen slowly relaxed just a little, running his thumb over Ebrisa's knuckles absentmindedly as he watched the elf work. It was going to be alright. If they could keep her from getting worse, if they could keep her stable, then they could focus on pulling her back from danger. They could bring her back to safety. He could bring her back to him.

“Elgar'nan,” Merrill breathed in disbelief, the sound startling Cullen out of his small moment of peace.

“What? What is it?” He tightened his grip on Ebrisa's hand, searching her face for any change.

“It's still there,” the elf answered slowly. “Quentin's binding is still there.”

“How is that possible? The monster's been dead for years!” Cullen scowled at nothing, trying to not remember how completely devastated Ebrisa had been about her time under the maleficar's control. “Shouldn't his magic have ended when his life did?”

Merrill nodded, clearly confused. “From what I understand, when a mage dies, his aura pulses out and its that invisible shock wave that dispels the, well, spells. Da'len was right there. It should have gone away instantly.”

A nauseating thought crept into Cullen's mind. “And... if Ebrisa hadn't been connected to the Fade at that time?” Was this his doing?

“If she was blocked from magic, then she would have been unable to feel the pulse,” Merrill reasoned.

“Can you remove it?” Cullen asked quickly, hoping the answer was anything but what he knew it would be.

She shook her head slowly. “Without knowing exactly what spell he used, I can't reverse it. It is dormant, however, and it's not hurting her at all. So long as no one knows its there or the ritual Quentin performed, then no further harm will come of this.” Cullen nodded solemnly, but felt no better about the situation.

 

Sebastian returned after what felt like an eternity with a few bottles and a basket of linen wrappings. “There wasn't much, but with this we may see color in her cheeks at least.” He paused slightly at Merrill, seeing the red glow around her hands and knowing what that meant, but pushed on. “Is it alright to move her? I won't be able to do the dressing properly if she's flush against the ground.”

“Oh, yes, I'm... holding it all in?” Merrill pulled a slightly uncomfortable face as she imagined doing the same with her hands. “Thank Mythal you came back. I won't be able to keep this going much longer.”

Cullen shifted higher, giving Sebastian his old spot and pulling Ebrisa partially into his lap to elevate her. The archer drenched a good amount of cloth in poultice before pressing it against the deep wound, then cleared his throat and glanced at Cullen. “Knight-Captain? If you don't plan on releasing Ebrisa's hand, could you at least move it out of the way?”

The templar flashed his eyes down, surprised to see his fingers so tightly wrapped around hers and being unable to remember grabbing them in the first place. Now that he had them – now that he _knew_ he had them – Cullen could not bring himself to release his grip. It felt like a fragile lifeline and feared that the slightest break in connection would send Ebrisa slipping through his fingers. Without looking at the others or saying a single word, Cullen pulled Ebrisa's hand away and rested their entwined fingers on her chest.

Sebastian was surprisingly good at dressing wounds, his time as an invested brother teaching him a few things his time as a prince never did, but after a few passes of wrapping he missed the roll of linen and his fingers pressed into the even larger gash in Ebrisa's back. “Sweet Maker... it goes all the way through.” He shot a mildly accusing glare at Merrill. “Why didn't you mention this?”

“I'm no healer, Sebastian,” she shot back. “How was I to know?”

Sebastian shook his head and began packing cloth beneath the injured woman. “Its too big. As soon as you release that spell, she'll soak through all this and we'll be right back where we started.”

Cullen fumbled with one of the flasks until he managed to pop the cork off one-handed. He knew an unconscious person couldn't drink, but maybe if the healing potion just sat in her mouth it could do enough good to allow her to wake. He tried tilting her head several different angles as Sebastian continued to wrap, but each time he poured the red liquid into Ebrisa's mouth, she choked on it and sputtered it all back out.

“Ebrisa, _please_ ,” he urged while tipping the flask to her lips once again. “Please, just drink the damn stuff!”

This wasn't going to work, they all knew it, but each of them dutifully kept at their respective tasks until Merrill was too exhausted and her focus slipped. As Sebastian feared, the linen grew red at an alarming rate and the sudden gushing of blood taxed Ebrisa's already weak heart. Cullen practically dropped the flask in his haste to check her pulse, his own speeding up as hers slowed.

“No, no, no,” Cullen pleaded as he felt Ebrisa slipping away. He looked to Merrill desperately, as though she had been lying the entire time and did in fact know a spell that could save the woman in his arms. “There's _nothing_ you can do?”

Merrill's eyes widened slightly, a spark of an idea, but she quickly dismissed it as absurd.

Not quickly enough.

“What? You thought of something?” Cullen tried to not let the hope over take his voice.

“Its just that... there is a spell I know that heals the caster with the life force of an ally. Its _possible_ that I might be able to use Quentin's magic as a way to redirect the energy to da'len.” Merrill furrowed her brow in concentration. “I don't think I could do that on my own, but if I could find a spirit to guide me through it and ensure I don't take too much from the volunteer...”

“More blood magic?” Sebastian murmured, doubt evident in his voice. “Would Ebrisa even want to be saved like that?”

It was a fair question. Ebrisa saw maleficarum as wicked and misguided and already felt tainted by her short time as a thrall. If her life was restored not only by blood magic but at the expense of another person's health, would she be angry?

“Find a spirit,” Cullen told the mage firmly, ignoring the incredulous look from the other man. He would much rather have Ebrisa angry with him, would rather have her outright hate him, than not have her in his life at all.

The elf closed her eyes and listened, making facial expressions as though conversing with someone. After a too long silence, she opened her round eyes again and smiled wearily. “There were a few spirits clamoring around da'len already, which is normally a bad sign, but it works for us in this case. Only one of them was willing to help with blood magic, but she needs to talk to the knight-captain first.”

Cullen stared at her, a little unsure. “I've never spoken to spirits before, I wouldn't know how. Can't you relay our responses?”

Merrill shook her head. “No, the spirit was very insistent. _For your ears only_ , as it were.”

“What if I say something wrong?” What if he messed up? What if he blew this one, last chance to save Ebrisa?

“Just be honest, Knight-Captain,” Merrill said with a small smile. “Now, close your eyes and the spirit will take care of the rest.”

He was apprehensive about what _the rest_ might entail, but Cullen took a breath and closed his eyes all the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The air had changed. Instead of the stagnant smell of wet stone and salt, there was a gentle breeze carrying the scent of flowers and fresh earth. Despite this shift, the copper taste of blood remained. Cullen opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the sunlight streaming down through the leaves that illuminated the small grove he found himself in. A brief flicker of panic shot through him as the confusion built, but the weight of Ebrisa against his lap and the feel of her limp hand in his grounded the templar.

Merrill had said the spirit would contact him, so his surroundings were likely a Fade construct to do just that. He looked down, ignoring the peaceful imagery around him to once again study the whiteness of Ebrisa's already pale skin. How had he let this happen?

“I'm so sorry,” Cullen mumbled, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. Maker, she was cold.

“Seeking fault where none is earned, I see. Aren't you a pair.”

Cullen turned sharply to the amused voice, wondering how he'd missed the woman's presence before that moment. She sat on the fallen log at his back, warm eyes fixed on the flowers in her lap as her slender fingers wove the stems together.

“You are the spirit that said it would help?” Cullen twisted just a bit to face the being further, careful to not jostle Ebrisa too much. “You said we must speak, so speak. There is precious little time.”

She smirked at the project in her hands. “So impatient. The mage was impatient, too.”

“Merrill is well aware of how dire the situation is and I would hope she'd already conveyed that to you,” Cullen shot back, working hard to keep his temper lest he make the spirit reconsider aiding them.

“There is no rush, ser templar,” she sighed. “Rest assured no amount of dawdling here will affect your realm. This is a place outside your ideas of time.”

That eased his concern a little, but Cullen could not ignore the sense of urgency he still felt. “That may be so, but I would have this settled sooner rather than later.”

The being chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Apparently so. Very well, ser templar, allow us to discuss the terms.”

 _Terms_. Cullen clenched his jaw, starring at the edge of the clearing for a moment. He really should have known that no goodly spirit would agree to dabble in blood magic, no matter the cause, and that the Dalish mage would think nothing about seeking aid from a darker being. “Are you a demon?”

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn't?”

“No,” he answered flatly, but his response only seemed to amuse the being further.

“Would it matter if I was?”

All his life he had been told how dangerous demons were, how they lead you in with impossible promises and sweet lies only to turn on you in the end and take everything. If you were lucky, they would only take your life, but there was always the chance they would twist your soul and treat you as a puppet to do their will in the mortal realm. To take a demon's deal was to condemn yourself and those around you to a fate worse than death, and yet...

“If you can truly save her and swear to never do her harm, then no.”

The spirit raised her eyes from the slowly forming wreath in her hands to regard the man, but showed no hint of surprise. “Such brash behavior for a templar, especially a knight-captain. Why do this for a mage?”

His response was instant, voice steady. “I'm not. This is for Ebrisa.”

“She's a mage,” the spirit reminded, going back to her weaving.

That was true, but at the same time Cullen had difficulty relenting that fact. Ebrisa had stopped being a mage in his eyes, had stopped being a charge to watch over like all the others, had stopped being like _any_ other. She was born with magic, could bend the flow of mana with her will, but she was not a mage. She was Ebrisa.

A soft chuckle broke Cullen from his silent musings and he looked back at the being on the log. “Now then, my terms?” She tilted her head to the side and surveyed the pile of flowers beside her, contemplating which to add next.

Cullen took a steadying breath and nodded. “Name them.”

“So alike, these two,” she hummed to the yellow bud held delicately between her thumb and forefinger. “Yes, ser templar, in order to receive my aid, you must name me.”

He stared at the being, mouth dropped slightly. Demons often had long, complex names and for him to guess whatever this one was called would be near impossible.

“It is not a difficult task, once you stop thinking about it so much,” the spirit gently encouraged. “This is not the first time we have met, so to speak.”

A numbness gripped the templar all at once, thinking back to his torture at the hands of demons in Fereldan. It wasn't without reason that at least one of them would follow him to Kirkwall to carry on with its task to break him, but if that was the case, then why wait so long? Why not force the nightmares instead of allowing him pleasant dreams? Dreams of...

Bile rose up in his throat as Cullen came to the realization that those wonderful, blessed dreams he had of Ebrisa were likely nothing but ploys by this very demon to weaken his resolve, nothing but twisted visions that perverted how he saw the woman in his arms so that one day the creature might finally get what it wanted. This demon had taken something pure and corrupted it, yet even so Cullen could not help but play it's game.

“Lust?” He tried, voice quiet, yet dripping in venom. “Desire? Lechery? Depravity?” Cullen stared off at nothing, no longer able to look at Ebrisa for fear she would open her eyes and see the shame written all over his face.

“What?” The being stilled her hands, blinking at the templar in a rare show of surprise. “No, not at all! There is nothing wicked or indecent in my name, ser templar, in how you feel. Did I not say you ought not think so much?” Her expression softened with sympathy, as though hearing his thoughts and knowing his mind. “Tell me, why does it not matter if I be a demon or this woman a mage? Why did you hesitate so little to welcome blood magic for her sake?”

Cullen slowly drew his eyes back to Ebrisa, silently marveling at how she could look so lovely, even with sickly skin and darkened eyes. How her laughter echoed in his heart hours after hearing it. How everything seemed to brighten when her smile reached her eyes. How the sound of disappointment in her voice made him want to try harder and the sound of disapproval made him want to plead forgiveness. “I...”

Ebrisa tried so hard to be proper, did her best to take care of other people's problems, and often times sacrificed her own comfort so another would suffer less. She not only put her needs beneath others, but tried to hide that they ever existed in the first place, as if what she wanted or needed wasn't important. But they were important. She was important, even if she didn't think so. “I...”

Ebrisa was important. Maybe not to herself or her family or the Circle, but she was to Cullen. It had been such a gradual shift from passing recognition to supporting one another that Cullen hadn't realized when he'd come to rely on her so much. He needed her in his life now, even if she would never speak to him again. She could hate him for the rest of her days, so long as they were plentiful.

Ebrisa could hate him, but he could never hate her.

Cullen squeezed her hand tighter as his chest did the same to his heart. “Ebrisa...” He stroked her cheek softly with his free hand, cursing the restrictive nature of his armor that prevented him from getting any closer than he was. “I love you.”

A gentle weight settled on his head, but the man ignored it and the sound of the being's voice as she once again chuckled.

“Ah,” Love sighed to herself. “This really did play out exactly the same.” She had been watching the mage and templar for some time, intrigued by their denial and dismissal of their obvious feelings for one another. It had taken a cold, hard dose of reality for either to acknowledge the love in their hearts, only able to see it when everything else in their lives ceased to matter.

Love had hoped that the mage would have acted on her revelation soon after receiving it, but that had not been the case. Humans were confounding creatures needing constant supervision and the spirit could not stay in Kirkwall with all of the negative emotions taking over the city. Perhaps now that both the mage and the templar admitted their love to themselves, they could finally confess it to each other.

How did the saying go? Love is patient, Love is kind? The spirit sighed once again, smiling to herself. These two were certainly putting that to the test.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *realizes a major issue with breaking up the story*  
> I've written a slow burn with no real pay off... Oh, frig.
> 
> The next part is going up in a bit. I'll update this with a link after I post it... thought you can also just hit the 'next in series' button  
> **  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10988484/


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